l^.M  UC-NRLF  l^iKSiLLL^iliikli 


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LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

University  of  California. 

Class         ^A^^Z 


BY   PERCY  MACKAYE 


The  Canterbury  Pilgrims.     A  Comedy. 

Fenris,  the  Wolf.    A  Tragedy. 

Jeanne  U  Arc. 

Sappho  and  Phaon. 

The  Scarecrow.  A  Tragedy  of  the  Ludicrous. 

Mater.    An  American  Study  in  Comedy. 

The  Playhouse  and  the  Play.     Essays. 

Poems. 

A  Garland  to  Sjflvia.     A  Dramatic  Reverie. 


Uniform,  i2mo.     $1.25  net,  each. 


Lincoln:  A  Centenary  Ode.    i2mo.    75c.  net 


A  GARLAND  TO   SYLVIA 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 


A  Dramatic  Reverie 


WITH   A   PROLOGUE 


BY 
PERCY   MACKAYE 


Of  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

Of 


WetD  gorft 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

1910 

All  rights  reserved 


GmHAL 


Copyright,  1910, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  May,  1910. 


This  play  has  been  copyrighted  and  published  simultaneously  in  the  United 
States  and  Great  Britain.  All  acting  rights,  both  professional  and  amateur,  are 
reserved  in  the  United  States,  Great  Britain,  and  countries  of  the  Copyright  Union, 
by  Percy  MacKaye.  Performances  forbidden  and  right  of  representation  reserved. 
Application  for  the  right  of  performing  this  piece  must  be  made  to  The  Macmillan 
Company.  Any  piracy  or  infringement  will  be  prosecuted  in  accordance  with  the 
penalties  provided  by  the  United  States  Statutes:  — 

"  Sec.  4966.  —  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing  any  dramatic  or 
musical  composition,  for  which  copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of 
the  proprietor  of  the  said  dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  or  assigns, 
shall  be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such 
sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subse- 
quent performance,  as  to  the  Court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  perform- 
ance and  representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons  shall  be 
guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceed- 
ing one  year."    U.  S.  Revised  Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 

Persons  desiring  to  read  in  public  this  play,  or  any  other  play  by  the  author,  are 
requested  first  to  confer  with  the  author  through  the  publishers. 


Nortoooti  J^vtM 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Ed 

ARVIA 
AND  HER  MOTHER 


205546 


PREFACE 

This  play  was  begun  in  the  autumn  of  1896,  when 
its  author  was  a  senior  in  Harvard  College.  After 
graduation  in  1897,  work  upon  it  was  postponed  for 
more  than  a  year,  but  was  resumed  during  the  autumn 
and  winter  of  1898  and  1899,  in  Italy,  where  the  larger 
part  was  written  and  the  whole  completed  at  the 
Villa  Aldobrandini,  Frascati,  near  Rome.  After  a 
year  spent  in  completing  other  dramatic  work  in  Ger- 
many, the  tentative  dramatist,  returning  in  1900  to 
America,  secured  through  "  Sylvia"  his  first  profes- 
sional commission  —  from  E.  H.  Sothern  for  ''The 
Canterbury  Pilgrims"  —  and  his  first  professional 
criticism:  two  columns  by  Norman  Hapgood  in  The 
New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

So  much  account  of  this  play  is  pertinent  to  place 
it  rightly  among  those  which  the  writer  has  already 
put  forth,  and  to  preface  a  few  reasons  for  its  publi- 
cation at  this  time. 

Fourteen  years  ago,  in  America,  the  vocation  of 
dramatist  held  a  backward  and  unenviable  status 
compared  with  to-day.  To-day,  to  be  sure,  it  is  still 
sufficiently  retrograde,  still  vastly  capable  of  cultiva- 
tion, yet  at  least  it  has  begun  to  wield  a  power  which 


X  PREFACE 

is  itself  awakening  public  opinion  and  artistic  impulse 
in  behalf  of  its  nobler  growth.  To  glance  back  into 
the  last  century  is  to  be  reassured  of  this. 

In  1896,  leadership  in  the  drama  as  a  native  ex- 
pression or  technical  craft  could  hardly  be  said  to 
have  commenced  in  our  country.  A  young  American, 
planning  to  adopt  the  profession  of  playwriting  strictly 
as  an  art,  must  have  sought  far  and  probably  in  vain 
through  theatre,  press,  university,  society  in  general, 
for  any  adequate  modern  standards  critical  or  crea- 
tive. To  search  abroad  would  avail  him  little  more. 
Most  of  the  European  and  English  dramatists  and 
critics,  who  have  done  so  much  to  leaven  the 
world-thought  of  the  last  decade  —  names  such  as 
Hauptmann,  Sudermann,  Maeterlinck,  D'Annunzio, 
Rostand,  Hervieu,  Brandes,  Archer,  Shaw,  Phillips, 
Barrie  —  would  probably  be  strange  in  his  ears.  Even 
Ibsen,  then  chiefly  notorious  for  his  ''  Doll's  House," 
was  still  a  vague  rumor,  caricatured  or  belittled.  As 
a  result,  our  apprentice  would  probably  turn  —  both 
for  technique  and  creative  instigation  —  to  the  only 
perennial  master  of  English  dramatic  tradition.  He 
would  turn  to  Shakspere,  printed  or  acted,  and,  whirled 
into  the  surging  vortex  of  that  inspiration,  he  would 
be  fortunate  if  he  escaped  the  misleading  attractions 
of  his  archaic  craftsmanship  and  Titanic  mannerism. 
He  would  be  doubly  fortunate  if,  by  the  effort  of  that 
mighty  emulation,  he  were  not  deflected  from  express- 
ing his  own  soul. 


'      PREFACE  xi 

As  the  record  of  an  apprentice  in  American  drama, 
striving  sincerely  to  express  himself  under  conditions 
of  that  period,  this  play  may  perhaps  have  its  interest 
for  the  historical  critic. 

As  an  expression  peculiarly  of  youth,  and  the  vision 
of  youth,  it  may  also  make  its  appeal  to  the  philosopher 
of  immaturity. 

Immaturity,  being  as  old  as  man,  needs  no  man's 
apology.  Yet  youth  is  himself  in  such  haste  and  hot 
desire  to  mature  that  he  has  no  time  to  defend  his 
intrenchments  against  the  condescending  sallies  of 
maturity.  Viewed  by  his  elders  as  merely  a  passing 
phase  of  human  nature,  youth  rebels,  and  is  ever  in 
the  act  of  claiming  permanent  human  representation 
when,  of  his  own  accord,  he  yields  allegiance  to  the 
complacent  majority  of  the  mature.  Like  a  radical 
in  the  commons,  raised  unexpectedly  to  the  peer- 
age, youth  is  satisfied  by  the  recognition  of  sov- 
ereign time  and  becomes  conservative.  ''  Promising 
young  man!"  exclaims  the  sage,  and  the  world  mur- 
murs approvingly.  '^Promising  old  fellow?"  queries 
the  boy,  but  gets  no  "rise"  out  of  the  world. 

To  be  one  and  twenty  is  a  dubious  prerogative 
granted  but  once  to  one  and  all  of  us:  but  not  to  one 
at  a  time.  Fortunately  the  privilege  is  conferred  in 
phalanxes,  so  that  the  immature  prophet  may  always 
speak  his  message  to  a  moving  phalanx  of  his  peers. 

It  is  perhaps  chiefly  as  the  technical  confession  of 
a  dramatic  apprentice  for  the  imaginations  of  dramatic 


xii  PREFACE 

apprentices  that  this  conception  of  one-and-twenty 
may  be  of  some  service  to-day.  For  ^'Sylvia"  is  not 
merely  a  youthful  Dramatic  Reverie;  it  is  a  young 
dramatist's  reverie;  and  in  America,  to-day  is  pe- 
culiarly the  day  of  young  dramatists,  though  their 
reveries  are  happily  not  of  as  isolated  a  character  as 
that  of  Felix  in  "  The  Prologue."  Indeed,  if  the  date 
of  ''The  Prologue"  were  1910  instead  of  1896,  it  is 
safe  to  say  that  Felix's  initiation  would  consist  in 
reading  his  play  aloud  to  an  eager  and  merciless  audi- 
ence of  seniors,  whose  pockets  would  be  bulging  with 
their  own  dramatic  efforts. 

To-day  a  new  growth  of  fellowship  has  sprung  up 
among  the  younger  play-makers  and  play- critics,  and 
especially  in  the  universities  this  growth  has  become 
an  authentic  university  movement,  under  the  critical 
leadership,  at  Harvard,  of  Professor  George  Pierce 
Baker.  To  him  peculiarly  the  universities  and  the 
nation  owe  a  permanent  debt  of  gratitude  for  his 
patient  and  enHghtened  championship  of  an  ideal, 
long  ignored,  pregnant  with  vital  importance  to  our 
civilization  —  the  ideal  of  cultivating,  at  the  fountain 
heads  of  the  liberal  arts,  living  standards  of  excellence 
in  the  living  drama.  In  this  respect,  the  Harvard 
Dramatic  Club  holds  an  unique  position  among 
college  dramatic  associations,  by  intelligently  devot- 
ing its  energies  not  to  amateur  show-making  or 
archaic  revivals,  but  to  technical  stagecraft  in  the 
acting  and  writing  of  modern  plays. 


PREFACE  '  xiii 

Results  of  this  Harvard  work  on  the  professional 
stage  are  already  beginning  to  be  seen,  and  the  acted 
plays  of  Edward  Sheldon  and  Hermann  Hagedorn 
promise  a  larger  fulfilment.  The  most  signal  expres- 
sion of  it,  manifesting  the  vital  significance  of  a 
present  day  university  movement  in  the  acted  drama, 
was  the  performance  at  Sanders  Theatre,  Cambridge, 
on  January  24th  this  year,  of  William  Vaughn  Moody's 
play  ''The  Faith  Healer"  by  Mr.  Henry  Miller  and 
his  company.  On  that  occasion,  for  the  first  time, 
the  dramatic  work  of  a  graduate  was  performed  pro- 
fessionally at  a  great  university,  and  in  that  fusion  of 
the  ideals  for  which  Mr.  Moody,  as  a  modern  dramatist, 
Mr.  Miller,  as  an  artist  of  the  theatre,  and  Professor 
Baker,  as  a  creative  critic  in  the  university,  have  zeal- 
ously stood,  a  precedent  of  national  importance  was 
established. 

The  space  of  a  preface  does  not  permit  me  to  de- 
scribe specifically  important  progress  in  other  uni- 
versities. 

The  influence,  however,  of  this  contemporaneous 
ideal  of  the  drama  is  happily  not  limited  to  Harvard, 
but  is  extending,  with  accelerating  vigor,  through 
American  universities,  colleges  and  schools,  where  it  is 
being  demonstrated  by  scores  of  progressive  men  and 
women.  Needless  to  say,  the  renascent  impulse  is  also 
active  in  dramatic  and  theatrical  work  having  no  con- 
nection with  the  universities  and  schools;  yet  nowhere 
else  is  it  so  fraught  with  the  promise  of  continuity, 


XIV 


PREFACE 


organization  and  idealism,  correlated  with  the  forces 
of  national  leadership. 

In  the  universities  to-day,  then,  the  dramatic  ap- 
prentice finds  himself  definitely  related  to  the  begin- 
nings of  a  renascence  in  his  art,  in  a  way  impos- 
sible to  the  author  of  "Sylvia."  I  refer  to  him  in 
the  third  person  because,  for  me,  the  author  of  this 
play  is  a  personality  strangely  commingled  of  the  first 
and  third  persons,  with  emphasis  upon  the  third. 
'T.  W.  M."  (having  not  yet  dropped  the  'Wallace' 
of  his  name),  a  student  at  Harvard,  new  to  his  senior 
gown;  again,  a  first-year  graduate,  sharp-edged  to 
the  struggHng  loneHness  of  life;  again  a  dreamer  in 
Italy,  steeped  in  the  old  mystic  charm  of  cypressed 
ruins,  the  bells  of  Rome,  the  hues  of  Raphael,  the 
moon  through  falling  almond-bloom  —  that  P.  W.  M., 
I  once  knew  him  well,  his  joys,  his  pangs,  his  doubts, 
his  aspirations.  Afterwards  I  was  his  critic,  his 
counsellor,  his  close  friend,  yet  it  can  hardly  be  said 
with  truth  that  we  knew  each  other,  for  to  him  I  never 
was;  and  much  that  was  all  in  all  to  him  —  what  was 
it?  —  I  have  forgotten. 

It  is,  therefore,  with  a  certain  diffidence  that  I 
undertake  now  to  edit  and  preface  his  play.  In  doing 
so,  to  put  it  forth  as  a  work  of  myself,  or  as  of  another, 
is  equally  disconcerting;  personal  apology,  disinter- 
ested approval,  are  alike  incongruous.  Differing  as 
I  do  in  some  respects  from  P.  W.  M.  in  his  dramatic 
confession  of  faith,  agreeing  as  I  do  in  other  respects, 


.    PREFACE  XV 

how  can  I  assume  that  he  would  approve  me  as  his 
prefacer?  Happily,  from  this  semi-posthumous  di- 
lemma, I  have  found  a  living  escape:  I  have  found 
a  Preface,  written  eleven  years  ago  by  P.  W.  M. 
himself,  at  a  moment  when  there  appeared  to  be  some 
danger  of  the  play's  publication  —  a  danger  deferred 
to  the  present  hour. 

That  contemporary  preface,  written  in  1899,  soon 
after  the  play's  completion,  speaks  of  ''Sylvia"  with 
more  insight  and  authority  than  I  can  now,  and  having 
been  left  by  P.  W.  M.  together  with  his  play  manu- 
script in  my  hands,  I  have  felt  responsible  to  print  it 
here  without  alteration,  as  follows:  — 

A  FOREWORD 

TO 

*'A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA" 

by 

Percy  Wallace  MacKaye 

I  remember  once  sitting  in  a  crowded  theatre  and 
being  thrilled  by  the  thought  that  the  thousand  eyes 
around  me,  riveted  on  the  stage,  were  unconsciously 
gazing  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  a  poet's  mind  — 
filling  their  myriad-soul  with  the  vision  of  his  single 
imagination. 

This  thought  has  doubtless  moved  many  others 
besides  myself,  though  it  may  not  have  led  them  to 
consider  many  of  the  possible  inferences  to  be  drawn 
from  its  truth.     Some  of  these  inferences,  as  relating 


xvi  PREFACE 

to  the  play  which  follows,  I  should  like  to  consider 
here. 

First,  though,  it  is  but  natural  that  the  average 
spectator  of  a  play  should  not  thus  view  the  stage 
before  him  as  an  objectification  of  the  dramatist's 
mind;  for  it  is  the  dramatist's  first  business  to  annul 
himself  in  his  play;  to  draw  attention,  that  is,  to  his 
vision,  not  to  his  own  personality.  And  yet,  in  spite 
of  this,  his  obvious  function  of  impersonahty,  the  poetic 
dramatist  must  always  be  an  unconscious  lyrist. 
''Unconscious,"  I  say,  because,  though  he  does  not 
in  his  work  give  direct  expression  to  his  personal  attri- 
butes, opinions  and  longings  as  the  lyric  singer  does, 
yet  he  is  impelled  by  the  same  motive  as  all  true 
singers  to  give  expression  to  his  deepest  self.  For  the 
primal  motive  of  art  is  the  motive  of  expression  — 
the  longing  to  speak,  whether  in  air,  or  stone,  or  tint, 
or  form.  The  master  impulse  of  every  artist,  there- 
fore, is  to  express  himself,  and  a  dramatist  is  essentially 
an  artist. 

His  means  of  expression,  however,  are  far  more 
complicated  and  indirect  than  those  of  the  simple 
lyrist.  The  lyrist  sings  himself  in  the  expression  of 
his  own  thoughts,  his  own  emotions,  his  own  character. 
The  dramatist  sings  himself  in  the  expression  of  the 
thoughts  of  others,  the  emotions  of  others,  the  char- 
acters of  others;  yet  of  others,  whom  he  has  first  made 
a  portion  of  himself  in  imagination. 

Now  it  is  in  this  imaginative  appropriation  of  his 
various  play-characters  —  or  we  may  say  as  truly, 
their  appropriation  of  his  expanded  being  —  it  is  in 
this  inward  impersonation  of  the  dramatis  personcB 
by  the  dramatist,  or  of  the  dramatist  by  the  dramatis 
personcBj  as  well  as  in  the  first  basic  motive  of  artistic 


PREFACE  xvii 

expression,  that  every  true  dramatist  exhibits  in  his 
work  those  essential  evidences  of  uttered  personahty 
which  mark  him  as,  in  truth,  a  lyrist. 

Shakspere  is  not  an  exception.  He  is  indeed  the 
most  perfect  of  poets  in  that  he  is  the  most  imper- 
sonal (so  called)  of  dramatists,  wherein  that  term  "im- 
personal" means  no  more  nor  less  than  this:  that  his 
personality  has  expanded  in  imagination  nearer  to 
the  universal  than  any  other.  And  this  kind  of 
personality,  as  opposed  to  the  individuaHty  whose 
attributes  are  merely  ephemeral,  is  that  which  every 
true  artist  seeks  by  his  sympathy,  or  imagination, 
to  develop,  and  that  which  is  developed,  to  its  broadest 
capacity,  by  the  means  of  expression  of  the  dramatist. 
These  means  of  expression,  as  I  have  mentioned,  are 
the  characters,  emotions,  thoughts  of  others,  imaginized 
(if  I  may  use  the  word  —  meaning  thereby  both 
perceived  and  embodied,  discovered  and  clothed,  by 
his  poetic  imagination) :  in  other  words,  human  nature 
itself,  which  followed  to  its  deepest  means  Nature  her- 
self and  mystery. 

Now  if  a  young  dramatist,  with  his  limited  but  ever 
expanding  personahty,  seeks  to  express  himself  through 
characters  and  traits  of  human  nature,  in  other  words, 
if  he  is  seeking  to  write  a  play,  how  shall  he  be  most 
true  to  that  human  nature?  By  studying  it  through 
that  faculty  in  him  which  is  most  keenly  and  intel- 
lectually observant  of  the  myriad  reaHstic  tricks  and 
traits  of  human  character,  as  mannerisms,  ''dress," 
differentiation  of  speech,  etc.,  which  make  toward  the 
outward  individualizing  of  men?  Or  through  that 
faculty,  which  —  passively  excluding  the  moral  and 
intellectual  —  observes  mainly  what  is  aesthetic: 
the  grace,  that  is,  of  form,  tone,  color  in  life,  which 


xviii  PREFACE 

constitute  the  groupings  and  the  lights  and  shades 
in  se  of  human  nature?  Or  through  that  deepest 
inclusive  beauty  in  his  own  nature,  which  is  in- 
separable alike  from  what  is  ethical,  aesthetic  and 
intellectual  —  which  is  indeed  the  eye  of  perfect 
sympathy  —  the  poetic  imagination,  love  itself? 

Struggling  deeply  in  his  own  heart  to  solve  this 
choice  in  truth,  a  young  artist,  whose  faith-inspired 
ignorance  is  at  once  creating  and  discovering  the  ideal 
which  is  to  lead  him  to  what  perhaps  is  the  true  solu- 
tion—  we  first  meet  Felix. 

When  I  first  conceived  this  play,  it  came  to  me  as 
a  veritable  vision,  if  so  humble  a  work  may  claim  that 
classification.  To  show  the  personal,  or  lyrical,  aspect 
of  the  play  then  —  and  it  hung  in  my  fancy  then 
practically  as  it  stands  here  in  print,  save  for  the  greater 
distinctness  of  actually  worded  speeches  now,  which 
then  were  the  action  or  emotion  they  represent  —  I 
transcribe  this  sonnet,  which  I  wrote  soon  afterward: 

Far  in  a  dawn,  hid  in  the  dusk  of  sleep, 

I  woke,  with  silent  Somnus  at  my  side; 

We  lay  in  a  dim  wood,  where  I  descried 
A  troop  of  ghostly  lovers,  such  as  keep 
Upon  the  stage  a  parlance  strange  and  deep. 

I  spoke  to  them:  they  heard  not,  nor  replied. 

"  Ye  phantoms  of  mine  out-thought  selves,"  I  cried, 
"  Are  ye  not  perished?    Seek  ye  still  to  reap 
The  love  of  Sylvia,  holy,  fair  and  wise? 

Depart!  and  be  no  more."    And  then  methought 
I  touched  their  garments,  looked  them  in  the  eyes, 

Beseeching  them;  but  they  beheld  me  not;  , 

For  I  was  ghost,  and  they  —  realities. 

Born  of  the  dark  inevitableness  of  thought. 

In  this  sonnet  I  would  seem  to  refer  to  myself  as 
Felix.    And  indeed  I  am,  or  rather  was,  when  I  wrote 


PREFACE  xix 

the  play;  but  yet  no  more  Felix  than  Sylvia,  or  Babble- 
brook,  or  Sandrac,  save  in  as  much  as  one  of  those 
may  be  more  deeply  true  to  human  nature  than  another. 

Thus,  as  I  began  to  write  the  play,  this  somewhat 
introspective  —  though  I  think  not  morbid  —  con- 
templation of  my  own  relation  to  my  characters 
fascinated,  nay  I  confess,  weighed  upon  me,  with  some 
touch  of  Felix's  doubt  and  Sandrac's  bitterness;  so  that 
I  was  soon  struck  with  the  unusual  chance  to  vivify 
to  an  audience's  imagination  the  thought  with  which 
I  began  this  preface,  coupled  with  another  of  deeper 
significance. 

I  wished  to  portray  —  or  rather,  I  saw  portrayed 
before  me  mentally  —  first,  a  young  dramatist,  groping 
in  the  mists  of  his  imagination,  confronted  and  con- 
founded by  that  personality  of  his  own  which  he  had 
unwittingly  but  inevitably  wrought  into  the  charac- 
ters of  his  play;  the  moral  effect  —  in  deeper  thought, 
bitterness,  remorse  and  faith  —  of  the  conflict  with 
that  inevitability;  and  thereby  the  reflex  effect  of  all 
this  upon  the  audience  of  my  own  play,  through  a  clear 
revelation  of  the  truth  that  the  real  stage  of  the  drama 
is  the  mind  of  man. 

And  secondly,  I  beheld,  and  tried  to  portray,  a  young 
man,  groping  in  the  mystery  of  our  life,  where  "  the 
Hving  are  our  ghosts,"  where  both  fancy  and  reality 
mock  us,  but  where  the  implanted  love  of  ideality 
within  us  leads  us  to  put  the  awed  question  to  the 
spirit  of  mystery,  though  we  know  it  shall  not  answer: 
the  question  whether  ''truth  itself  be  but  the  faith 
of  an  aspiring  reason,"  and  lastly  where  to  the  rational 
and  faithful  lover,  the  beauty  of  Nature  —  the  daughter 
of  Pan  —  becomes  wedded  to  his  very  soul  through 
faith. 


XX  PREFACE 

This  daughter  of  Pan  is  Sylvia,  though  the  reader 
may  well  rub  his  eyes  twice  to  discover  her  classic 
father  in  the  crotchety  Hikrion.  It  is  not  my  in- 
tention here  to  say  much  about  Hikrion:  only  this  — 
that  I  conceived  him  as  still  exhibiting,  in  spite  of  all 
Felix's  conscious  efforts  (when  he  wrote  H's  part  in 
his  own  play)  to  disguise  him  under  a  totally  different 
type  of  character,  —  as  exhibiting  the  elusive,  unsup- 
pressible,  spirit  of  primitive  Nature,  which  underlies 
all  human  nature,  defying  all  conscious  analysis  and 
characterization.  I  say  this  to  assist,  not  to  excuse, 
my  impotence  to  carry  out  this  conception  adequately. 

One  word  as  to  the  form:  Felix's  play  (which,  as  he 
says,  was  in  a  state  of  incompletion  at  the  time  of  his 
initiation  at  college)  is,  for  clearness'  sake,  entirely 
written  in  terza  rima,^  corresponding,  in  sequence  of 
end-rhyme  merely,  with  Dante's  verse  in  "The  Divine 
Comedy,"  with  the  exception  of  Act  II,  Scene  2,  which 
is  written  in  Shaksperian  sonnets.  The  verse  itself 
is  frequently  rough  and  ''run-over"  in  its  phrasings, 
to  conceal  the  effect  of  rhyme,  since  that  is  used  simply 
to  distinguish  the  more  clearly  Felix's  own  play  from 
the  main  body  of  the  "Reverie,"  which  includes  it. 
Its  effect  otherwise  is  bad,  as  it  leads  to  diffuseness. 

And  now  for  this  "  Garland"  of  mingled  meaning 
and  mysticism,  with  which  the  poor  reader  is  supposed 
to  bind  his  pained  brows,  the  discriminating  critic 
has  already  found  a  courteous  word  of  damnation; 
and  indeed  I  am  not  far  disinclined  to  join  him  heartily 
in  the  damning.  The  word  is  "Allegory,"  and  in  that 
gory  alley  of  Oblivion  lies  many  a  sproutling  mur- 

^  The  exact  terza  rima  form  has  been  modified  in  places  through- 
out the  play,  by  revisions  and  excisions  made  shortly  after  the  play's 
completion. 


PREFACE  xxi 

dered  in  his  first  blush.  But  yet,  one  word  for  this  one, 
ere  the  red  ink  of  righteousness  leave  its  deadly  scratch 
on  gentle  Sylvia. 

In  birth,  at  least,  "Sylvia"  is  not  of  the  family 
Allegory,  whatever  suspicion  and  peril  her  garb  and 
training  may  now  lead  her  into.  I  mean  that  ever  in 
conception  throughout  the  play,  the  image,  or  vision, 
has  come  first;  then  after  and  out  of  the  image  —  the 
meaning.  Never  was  it  vice  versa,  which  I  understand 
to  be  the  true  genus  allegoricum.  And  Sylvia  herself, 
to  me  as  to  Felix,  was  never  a  starry  nebula  of  theo- 
retics, but  as  near  and  blushing  a  personality  as  the 
ideal  which  every  youth  out  of  a  hundred  worships 
in  his  heart  of  hearts.  Having  said  so  much,  dear 
Sylvia,  it  is  not  for  me  to  comment  on  thy  imperfect 
realization  in  this  play.  For  thou  art  Felix's  now, 
and  not  mine,  and  he  alone  can  shield  thee  henceforth. 

P.  W.  M. 

Frascati,  Rome, 
March,  1899. 

Such,  then,  is  the  Preface  of  P.  W.  M.,  apprentice. 
As  the  words  of  one  with  whom  P.M.  —  still  appren- 
tice, however  much  he  would  modify  to-day  that 
early  confession  of  faith  —  has  a  Hfe-work  in  common, 
the  writer  begs  leave  to  submit  them  to  the  pro- 
verbial gentleness  of  the  reader. 

Percy  MacKaye, 
Cornish,  New  HAMPsmRE, 
March,  1910. 


CHARACTERS 

OF  THE   PROLOGUE 


\/ii 


his  classmates. 


FELIX   CLOUD  SLEY,  a  Senior  in  Harvard  College, 

HUGH  MERRIMAN, 

WARTON, 

OTHER   SENIORS. 

MR.   ^'EK^Ci ,  an  old  friend  of  Felix, 

MR.    ^.OX^^Y^Y.,  a  retired  actor. 

A   PROCTOR. 

SYLVIA. 

OF   THE   REVERIE 

FELIX, 

SOMNUS, 

THE  MIST-MOTHERS, 

SYLVIA, 

SANDRAC,  an  Oxford  Student, 

BABBLEBROOK,  a  courtier, 

SOB,  a  curate, 

PIERRE,  a  painter, 

ALBERTO,  a  violinist, 

SYLVIA, 

HIKRION,  her  foster-father, 

FERVIAN, 

FLURRIEL,        ^^^  handmaids, 

FRESCA, 

SIX  OTHERS  of  her  handmaids,  \Non- 

SPIRITS  OF  FANCY,  j  speaking 


Persons  in  the  World 
of  Reverie. 


Sylvia's 
Suitors 


Persons  in 
Felix's  Play 


SCENE   FIRST: 


ACT  I 

(The  Prologue)  —  A  room  in  Hollis 
Hally  Harvard  College,  Time^ 
the  Present. 


SCENE  SECOND  :i  {Act  I  of'Y\i^  Reverie)  —  T^ie  Forest 
of  Arden,  Shakspere's  Time,  Dawn ; 
afterwards  day. 


SCENE  FIRST: 
SCENE   SECOND: 


ACT  n 

A  Room  in  Sylvia's  Cottage. 


Day. 


Sylvia's  Garden,  surrounded  by  the  For- 
est. Twilight.  Afterwards  trans- 
formed to  Sylvia's  Palace;  Moonlight. 


ACT  m 

SCENE:     The  Same.     Noon. 


SCENE  EIRST: 
SCENE  SECOND: 


ACT  IV 

A  Cleft  in  a  Mountain. 
The  Forest.     Twilight. 


1  The  curtain  does  not  fall  between  Scene  First  and  Scene  Second. 
With  Scene  Second  commences  Act  I  of  Felix's  Play,  of  which  the 
action  takes  place  between  the  dawn  of  one  day  and  twilight  of  the 
next. 


A   GARLAND   TO   SYLVIA 


Who  is  Sylvia  ?    What  is  she, 
That  all  her  swains  commend  her  ? 

Holy,  fair  and  wise  is  she : 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her 

That  admired  she  might  he. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 
To  her  eyes  love  doth  repair 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness, 
Andy  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Sylvia  let  us  sing 

That  Sylvia  is  excelling. 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling. 
To  her  garlands  let  us  bring  ! 

Shakspeke. 


ACT  I 

Scene  First.    [The  Prologue.] 

[A  room  in  Hollis  Holly  Harvard  College.  The  room  is 
furnished  tastefully.  A  drop-light  descends  upon  a  table 
in  the  centre.    On  the  table  lies  tumbled  manuscript. 

Felix,  in  his  college  gown,  is  walking  back  and  forth.  He 
stops  to  lift  a  sheet  of  the  manuscript.] 

FELIX 
Act  Fourth,  and  how  to  end  it!  This  comedy  of 
mine  is  turning  tragic.  But,  no!  He  must  not  win 
her.  Why,  he's  the  villain,  not  the  hero.  And  yet — 
to  be  true  to  life.  I  must  be  true  —  with  splendid 
realism,  as  the  critics  say  —  to  the  falsity  of  human 
nature.  Yet  I  am  human,  Mr.  Realist,  even  as  you. 
Then  —  how  say  you!  —  let's  be  false  to  our  own 
falsity,  and  true  to  something  —  better,  we  will  call  it. 
I'll  do  it. 

[Scratches  a  line  across  the  manuscript.] 

There,  Sandrac!    There's  a  sword- thrust  for  you, 
even  in  the  middle  of  your  wedding  scene. 
[Throws  away  the  pen.] 

That's  done,  thank  God!  But  now  —  how  to  end 
it  all  with  truth?  Dear  Sylvia,  only  you  can  help 
me  now. 

3 


4  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

[He   starts   and   listens.    Outside,   loud   noises  — 
singing  and  stamping  —  draw  near.] 

Fate  and  the  fellows! 

[Quickly  gathering  up  his  manuscript,  he  writes  on  a  piece  of 
paper,  and  lays  it  on  the  table;  then,  turning  down  the 
gas,  he  slips,  noiselessly,  into  his  bedroom,  closing  the 
door.] 

STUDENTS 
[Outside.] 

Cloudsley!    Cloudsley!    Cloudsley! 

Rah,  rah,  rah! 

Rah,  rah,  rah! 
Rah,  rah,  rah!    Cloudsley! 

Punch! 
We  —  want  —  punch ! 

A  HIGH  VOICE 
Who  wants  punch? 

STUDENTS 
We  do!  — Halloa,  Cloudsley! 

[Confused  clamor  of  voices.] 

Turn  up  the  gas.  Come  out  of  your  nightcap! 
Lend  us  a  megaphone.  Where  are  you  at?  Oh, 
I  say! 

ANOTHER  VOICE  (HUGH'S) 

Hush,  duffers.     Here,  give  me  a  Hft. 

[A  murmur  outside,  and  kicks  against  the  door;  then  Hughes 
head  appears  through  the  transom.] 


THE  PROLOGUE  5 

HUGH 
Higher!    Boost  me,  mon.    Hold  on  to  my  hoof, 
there.  Warty.     Easy  now.     Reach  me  the  cane  —  the 
cane,  I  say  —  damn  it,  the  cane.     That's  it. 

[From  outside,  a  cane  is  thrust  to  Hugh  through  the  transom. 
With  it,  he  reaches  down  and  pushes  the  catch-lock 
within.  At  the  same  time,  the  handle  is  turned  from 
outside  and  the  door  is  thrown  open.  In  rushes  a  crowd 
of  students,  in  caps  and  gowns,  who  turn  up  the  gas  and 
scatter  about  the  room,  helping  themselves  to  drink  and 
tobacco.] 

STUDENTS 
[As  they  enter.] 
Hurray! 

WARTON 

[Shouts.] 
What  —  ho !  mine  host! 

HUGH 

\Who  is  left  stuck  in  the  transom,  his  legs  dangling,  midair, 

in  the  open  doorway.] 

Hold  on,  fellows!    Take  me  out  of  this. 
[The  students  jeer  at  him.] 

WARTON 

\Who  ajffects  a  light  air  of  badinage  and  conscious  super- 
culture.] 

Ah!    Merriman,  Merriman,  such  is  the  snare  for 
him  who  cometh  as  a  thief  by  night. 


6  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

HUGH 
Hang  your  soul,  Warty!    I'd  drop  down  myself,  I 
tell  you,  if  this  cursed  rag  of  mine  wasn't  caught. 

WARTON 
Verily,  'tis  easier  for  a  camel  to  pass  through  the 

eye  — 

HUGH 

Will  any  one  give  me  a  lift-down,  by  God? 

FIRST  STUDENT 
Go  it,  man!  make  it  a  touch-down;   only  one  yard 
to  gain.    To  Hell  with  Yale!    The  beers  are  up. 

[Several  students  pop  bottles  and  hold  them  enticingly  under 
Hughes  nose.] 

HUGH 
Oh,  all  right,  I  can  hang  here,  till  the  Proctor  comes. 

STUDENTS 
Cheese  it.     The  Proctor. 

WARTON 

[Approaching  Hugh,  warily.] 

Honest  Hugh,  hadst  thou  read  thy  Shakspere  with 
diHgence,  pardee,  thou  wouldst  have  taken  profit  from 
thy  Grandsire  Falstaff,  and  not  have  fallen  amongst 
us  merry  wives.     However,  for  the  Proctor's  sake  — 

\With  his  pocket-knife,  he  cuts  the  strings  that  hold  Hugh, 
whose  gown  tears  as  he  falls  on  his  feet  to  the  floor.  The 
rest  of  the  gown  remains  hanging  from  the  transom.] 


THE  PROLOGUE  7 

HUGH 

[Examining  his  curtailed  gown\ 
Gad,  fellows,  I  call  this  humiliating. 

SECOND  STUDENT 
[Offering  his  beer.] 
Here,  Merry,  don't  you  care.    We  came  here  to 
initiate  Cloudsley;  not  you. 

FIRST  STUDENT 
Yes;  but  where  is  Cloudsley? 

WARTON 

[Picking  up  Felix's  note.] 
Behold!    He  hath  penned  a  pronouncement! 

[Reading.] 
"  Back  in  a  few  minutes.    Make  yourselves  at  home. 
Cloudsley." 

[Warton  looks  round  at  the  fellows,  who  are  stowing  them- 
selves in  comfortable  chairs  and  divans,  helping  them- 
selves to  cigars  and  beer,  or  making  punch.] 

Why    hesitate,    gentlemen?    Make    yourselves    at 

home. 

SECOND  STUDENT 

Cert;  and  as  to  this  initiation? 

HUGH 
Wait;  I'd  go  slow. 

WARTON 
And  why,  prithee? 


8  A   GARLAND   TO  SYLVIA 

FIRST  STUDENT 
Yes,  what^s  struck  you,  Merriman?     Cloudsley  has 
had  a  cinch  all  the  year  —  never  took  his  initiation. 
We  other  fellows  had  to  stand  it.    Why  shouldn't  he? 


He's  different. 
Rot! 
WeU  — 
Well,  what? 


HUGH 
WARTON 

HUGH 
WARTON 


HUGH 
Fellows,  I've  bunked  with  Cloudsley.    When  I  was 
sick  at  midyears,   he   took  me  in    here    and  fairly 
coddled  me. 

WARTON 

Ergo,  we  must  coddle  him  now,  eh? 

HUGH 

Well,  I  saw  him  days,  and  I  heard  him  talk  in  his 

sleep  nights,  and  I  tell  you,  fellows,  Cloudsley's  in 

love. 

[The  room  bursts  into  roars  of  laughter.] 

WARTON 
In  love !    Oho !     Cupid,  hast  thou  shot  Plato  through 
the  Idea! 

FIRST  STUDENT 

What's  the  girl's  name? 


(urn 


OF   THE  \ 

c^  XffE  PROLOGUE 


HUGH 
Sylvia;  and  I  tell  you,  Cloudsley's  got  it  bad. 
Why,  he  writes  verses  to  her,  I  guess.  Anyway,  he'll 
walk  up  and  down  in  a  mighty  eloquent  silence, 
muttering  like  Hamlet.  And  then,  by  Gad,  for  all 
like  Hamlet,  you'd  think  he  saw  a  ghost,  for  he'll  call 
out  '^Sylvia!"  to  the  empty  air,  and  swear  by  his 
soul,  he'll  save  her  from  her  lover. 

SECOND  STUDENT 
The  poor  duff  must  have  been  jilted. 

HUGH 
Damme,  I  think  that's  it.  I  spoke  to  him  about 
it  once,  but  he  smiled  and  tried  to  stuff  me.  "Sylvia? " 
says  he,  ''why,  man,  she's  just  a  character  in  a  play 
I'm  writing."  And  then  he  laughed  at  me,  but  he 
walked  away  mighty  sober. 

WARTON 

A  character  in  a  play?    So  Cloudsley  writes  plays, 
does  he? 

HUGH 
Lordy,  yes;  all  sorts  o'  queers.  But  say,  as  for 
Sylvia  —  well!  You  know,  I  may  be  a  good  grab-bag 
for  taffy,  but  he  couldn't  shove  that  down  me.  A 
fellow  don't  stay  awake  nights,  nor  forget  to  go  to 
dinner,  nor  talk  moonshine  at  noon,  just  because  he's 
interested  in  a  character  of  a  play  he's  writing.    It 


10  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

takes  more  than  that,  I  can  tell  you,  by  experience. 
It  takes  a  bloomin'  fine  girl! 

WARTON 
Dare  say!    But  what  has  Cloudsley's  being  in  love 
got  to  do  with  this  initiation? 

[Reenter  Felix,  unobserved,] 

HUGH 
Why,  just  this:  there  isn't  going  to  be  any  initiation. 

WARTON 
Who's  going  to  prevent  it? 

HUGH 
Me.    I  tell  you,  damn  it,  I'm  dead  stuck  on  Felix, 
and  for  the  short  and  long  of  it,  if  any  man  wants  to 
initiate  him  now,  he's  got  to  settle  with  me  first. 

FELIX 
{Stepping  forward.] 
And  what  will  you  do  to  the  initiator,  Hugh? 

HUGH 
Halloa,  FeUx,  you  here? 

WARTON 
Hail,  Signore  Felice  Nuvoloso!    Make  yourself  at 
home. 

FELIX 
With  a  mock  bow.] 
Grazie,    Eccelenzal    But   first,   I   believe,   I   must 
''settle"  with  Hugh  here. 


THE  PROLOGUE  ii 

HUGH 
Damn  it,  these  fellows  — 

FELIX 
Are  about  to  confer  upon  me  the  honor  of  an  initia- 
tion.   Am  I  right? 

FIRST  STUDENT 

That's  the  size  of  it. 

HUGH 
But  I  say  — 

FELIX 

That  nothing  can  exceed  my  boundless  gratitude. 
*Tis  a  privilege,  believe  me,  I  have  long  sighed  for. 

THIRD  STUDENT 
Hear!    Hear! 

HUGH 

Come  off!  —  You  mean  you  want  to  be  initiated? 

—  straight? 

FELDC 

With  all  the  gravity  of  the  grave.    What,  Hugh! 
Would  you  have  me  exempted  from  an  honor  con- 
ferred upon  all  the  rest  of  you?  — 
\With  a  flourish.] 

Classmates,  I  am  your  grateful  servant.  Your  quest 
with  me  this  night  has  affected  my  feeKngs  deeply. 
Believe  me,  to  bestride  the  goat  of  our  fraternity  would 
stir  my  heart-pulse  with  a  more  perspiring  ardor  than 
to  mount  the  pommel  of  Pegasus.  Nothing,  in  short, 
to-night  would  more  fire  my  soul  than  this  initiation, 
if  alas!  — 


12  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

[He  smiles.] 
—  I  were  not  otherwise  engaged. 

[Stamping,  jeering  and  groaning.] 

FIRST  STUDENT 
Say,  fellows,  catch  on  to  the  "  engaged." 

THIRD  STUDENT 
Hear!    Hear! 

STUDENTS 

What's  her  name  ?  —  Sylma  ? 

FELIX 

Why,  yes,  Sylvia  was  the  lady  with  whom  — 

WARTON 
Oho!    Is  she  here? 

[PTi^/j  a  slurring  smile.] 
Gad,  fellows,  we'd  best  be  out  of  this. 

[Bows  away.] 
Cloudsley,  a  thousand  pardons  for  intruding. 

FELIX 
[Looking  Warton  in  the  eye.] 
Hold  on,  Warton.    Not  for  the  intrusion,  but  for 
the    inference  —  I'll    take    your    thousand    pardons. 
Are  they  mine? 

WARTON 

[Cringingly.] 
Oh,  your  humble  servant! 


THE  PROLOGUE  13 

FELIX 
Hugh,  show  these  Bacchantes  how  to  mix  punch. 

HUGH 
I'm  their  man. 

{To  a  student.] 

Hand  me  the  mint  and  mandarin  there.  But  say, 
Felix,  I'm  glad  youVe  owned  up:  tell  us  about  her. 
Who  is  Sylvia,  anyhow,  and  what's  her  last  name? 

FELIX 

Why,  the  name  of  the  last  happy  thought  in  your 

heart. 

HUGH 

[Aside  to  Warton.] 

Told  you  so.  Warty.    Clean  off. 

[To  the  others.] 

Well,  every  man  to  his  taste.    A  fig,  say  I,  for  these 

girls  in  the  thought;  give  me  one  in  the  flesh. 

[Raising  his  glass.] 

Fellows,  here's  to  our  sweethearts,  and  to  every 

honest  girl  that  can  weigh  down  a  buggy  spring. 

FELIX 
[Drinking  with  the  others.] 
To  the  belle  of  the  buggy  spring! 

SECOND  STUDENT 
Here's  a  bumper  to  her! 

THIRD  STUDENT 
Song!    Song! 


14  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FIRST  STUDENT 

"Johnny  Harvard!"  — Join  in,  boys! 

[A  knock  sounds  on  the  door,  hut  is  not  heard  by  them.  All 
sing  vociferously.  Hugh  stirs  the  howl  in  time  to  the 
musicj  and  Felix  thrums  the  guitar.] 

ALL 
"Oh!  here's  to  Johnny  Harvard, 
Fill  him  up  a  full  glass, 
Fill  him  up  a  glass  to  his  name  and  fame. 

And  at  the  same  time 
Don't  forget  his  true  love, 

Fill  her  up  a  bumper  to  the  brim; 
Drink,  drink,  drink, 

FiU  her  up  a  bumper  to  the  brim." 

{Amid  the  shouts  and  self -applause  that  immediately  follow  y 
enter  Mr.  Berry  and.  Mr.  Rourke.] 

STUDENTS 
[In  confused  cry.] 

Come  in!    Come  in!    A  rouser  for  the  old  bucks! 

Rah,  rah,  rah! 

Rah,  rah,  rah! 

Rah,  rah,  rah! 

Old  Bucks! 

FELIX 
[Remonstrating.] 
Fellows!  —  Come  in,  Mr.  Berry,  come  in. 


TEE  PROLOGUE  '  15 

MR.  BERRY 

The  door  being  ajar,  Felix,  and  our  knockings  un- 
heard, we  — 

MR.  ROURKE 

[Stepping  to  the  punch-bowl,  speaks  with  a  slight  brogue.] 
We  walked  in,  sir,  to  join  your  wake. 

BERRY 
[Buttonholing  Felix.] 

Old  friend  of  mine  —  actor  —  brought  him  roimd 
to  hear  your  play. 

STUDENTS  ; 
[Surrounding  Rourke  with  raised  glasses.] 
A  toast  to  Irish !     Speech  —  speech ! 

ROURKE 
Gentlemen,  I  drink  with  ye  to  the  health   and 
spirits  o'  the  fond  departed. 

[Laughter J  with  shouts  of  —  "  Who  ?  —  the  Proctor  ?  "] 

FELIX 
Fellows,  a  word  with  you. 

STUDENTS 

Hear!    Hear! 

FELIX 

In  remembering  the  Proctor,  remember  your  degrees 

this  week. 

HUGH 

Gad,  yes;  let  up,  boys. 


i6  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FIRST  STUDENT 

[Mounting  a  chair.] 

Here's  to  the  Proctor  —  three  cheers  and  a  Tiger. 

STUDENTS 
Hish!    Hish!    Pull  him  down. 

FIRST  STUDENT 
Down  front! 

BERRY 

Rourke,  this  is  my  boy,  Felix  Cloudsley. 

FELIX 
Mr.  Rourke  -^ 

ROURKE 

Mr.  Cloudsley,  it  gives  me  real  pleasure  to  drink  to 
your  good  health. 

FELIX 

I  hope,  Mr.  Rourke,  you  will  pardon  — 

ROURKE 

[Smiling.] 

Pardon!    Why,  bless  ye,  sir,  you  could  double  the 
price  of  admission  and  make  your  fortune. 
[Helping  himself  to  punch  again.] 
By  your  leave,  Mr.  Cloudsley  — 

FELDC 

Please. 

[To  Berry.] 

This  is  mighty  good  of  you  to  come.    I  have  a  great 
deal  to  ask  you  — 


TEE  PROLOGUE  17 

WARTON 
\Who  has  beckoned  the  students  aside  mysteriously] 

You  understand,  the  masks  and  togs  are  in  my  room, 
at  the  end  of  the  corridor. 

[Loidly.] 
—  Come  on! 

FELDC 
Drop  in  again,  fellows. 

FIRST  STUDENT 
Never  you  fear. 

[Stealthily  pushing  hack  the  door  catch,  speaks  to  Warton.] 

The  catch-lock  is  open. 

THIRD  STUDENT 
[Singing.] 

''Sweet  Marie,  come  to  me!    Come  to  me.  Sweet 
Marie." 

WARTON 

[To  Felix.] 

Till  the  witching  hour! 

[Then  stealing  tiptoe  toward  Rourke  and  making  a  mystical 
gesture,  he  murmurs  with  a  very  broad  brogue.] 

''  Soft  you  now!  —  the  fair  Ophelia!" 

ROURKE 
[Turns  quickly,  seizes  Warton  by  the  nape  of  the  neck  with 
one  hand,  and  makes  a  theatrical  gesture  of  supplication 
with  the  other.] 
c 


i8  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

"Nymph!    In    thy    orisons    be    all    my    sins    re- 
membered!'* 

[Then  seizing  him  also  by  the  seat  of  his  trousers,  he  runs 
Warton  out  of  the  room.  Felix  and  Berry  applaud,  with 
laughter.] 

FELIX 

I  see  youVe  not  forgotten  your  cues,  Mr.  Rourke. 

ROURKE 
No,  sir;    I  once  performed  the  noble  Dane  myself, 
and  I'll  hear  no  aspersions  cast  on  his  American  accent. 

FELIX 

You  fit  new  business  to  the  old  lines. 

ROURKE 

And  that,  sir,  is  the  actor's  prerogative.    The  actor 

is  the  soul  and  substance  of  the  lines.     Without  his 

body's  breath,  what  would  they  be?    Why,  words, 

sir;   as  the  immortal  Prince  hath  it:   ^' words,  words, 

words." 

BERRY 

Slowly,  Rourke!    Are  we  to  understand  you  that 

the  soul  and  substance  of    Shakspere  are   in   stage 

production? 

ROURKE 

[Taking  a  pipe  and  seating  himself] 
Is  it  Shakspere's  plays  ye  mean,  or  his  poems? 

FELIX 

Aren't  they  one  and  the  same? 


THE  PROLOGUE  19 

ROURKE 
Me  boy!    Me  boy!    Ye're  young  yet. 

[Reaching  his  pipe  across  to  Berry's  cigar.] 
Give  us  a  light,  Berry,  man. 

BERRY 
Give  us  a  light  on  your  argument. 

ROURKE 
Yourself,   too?    Well!    Poems  is  poems;  plays  is 
plays.     Don't  mix  'em.    That's  all. 

FELIX 
But  which  do  you  consider  the  truer  to  life? 

ROURKE 
The  truer,  is  it?   Well,  now  you've  got  me.  For  the 
difference  between  a  play  and  a  poem,  so  to  speak, 
is  the  difference  between  a  white  lie  and  a  whopper. 

FELIX 
[Laughing.] 

How's  that? 

ROURKE 

Faith,  I'm  not  joking  at  all.  A  dramatist  is  a  liar 
by  necessity;  but  a  poet  is  a  liar  by  choice.  Sure, 
at  least,  a  dramatist  tries  to  speak  the  truth,  and  it's 
no  fault  of  his  if  his  play,  by  its  nature  as  an  imitation 
of  real  life,  is  but  a  make-believe  after  all.  His  object 
anyhow  is  to  stick  close  to  that  real  Hfe,  like  a  man. 
But  a  poet  —  on  my  heart,  he's  a  deal  worse  of  a  duffer, 


20  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

for  he'll  lie  like  a  Frenchman  by  the  hour,  and  the 

devil-a-bit  he  cares,  except  to  make  the  one  lie  prettier 

than  t'other. 

FELIX 

But,  Mr.  Rourke,  what  if  a  play  should  contain 

poetry? 

ROURKE 

'Twould  be  a  sad  contamination.  I  can  think  of 
no  other  cure  but  to  draw  the  bad  blood  out,  or  to 
amputate  the  poetic  part.  But,  Mr.  Cloudsley,  'tis 
yourself  are  the  student;  and  as  to  being  a  meta- 
physical professor  —  alas  for  the  profession!  I  neg- 
lected it  in  my  boyhood.  If  I  might  suggest,  then, 
mightn't  we  hear  a  bit  of  this  play  of  your  own,  sir, 
which  my  friend  Berry  has  spoken  to  me  about,  as 
being,  he  said,  a  promising  piece,  sir? 
[Tapping  his  head.] 

We  could  then  discuss  these  matters  less  in  the 

nebular  hypothesis. 

BERRY 

That's  right,  Felix,  —  your  play. 

FELIX 
Excuse  me  a  minute.    I  will  get  it. 
[Exit  to  his  bedroom.] 

BERRY 
Well,  what  do  you  think  of  him? 

ROURKE 
A  nice  boy,  and  his  punch  is  out  of  sight. 


THE  PROLOGUE  21 

BERRY 
I  knew  his  parents  intimately.     Since  they  died, 
I  have  kept  a  kind  of  wing  over  him.    He  hasn't 
been  at  all  well  lately,  and  I'm  anxious. 

ROURKE 

Bless  his  heart!    He  should  take  a  week's  run  of 

one  night    stands,   and    brush  off    the    cobwebs  o' 

classicism. 

BERRY 

I  hardly  think  that  would  serve.  His  malady 
appears  to  be  mental.  This  play  of  his  —  a  piece  of 
some  talent,  though  extravagantly  youthful  —  seems 
to  absorb  his  mind,  and  set  him  off  in  the  wildest  of 
speculations  as  to  the  relation  of  life  to  his  imagination. 
The  imagination,  he  believes,  is  a  faculty  of  perception 
and  creation.  So,  on  the  one  hand,  his  imagination 
can  perceive  truths  beyond  mere  eyesight;  and  on 
the  other,  it  can  create,  from  these  truths,  beings 
beyond  mere  flesh  and  blood  —  creatures  which  are 
henceforth  indestructible,  immortal;  for  whose  ex- 
istence he  himself  is  responsible,  as  the  good  Lord  for 
him.  Why,  man,  he  believes  it;  but  what's  worse, 
it's  making  him  ill. 

ROURKE 

The  boy  has  overstudied.    He  should  see  a  doctor. 

BERRY 
I  think  he  should.    And  yet,  Rourke,  I'm  not  so 
certain  that  our  doctors,  or  we  other  practical  old 


22  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

fellows  of  experience,  can  determine  always  where 
higher  sensibility  ends  and  aberration  begins.  Any- 
way, the  doctors  themselves  would  agree  that  we  must 
meet  Felix  on  his  own  ground. 

ROURKE 
Leave  him  to  me,  —  bless  him!    If  I  don't  rub  the 
common  sense  into  his  sensibility,  call  me  an  Irishman. 

BERRY 

I  will,  Rourke.    Blarney  the  boy  and  I'll  bless  you! 

Yet  not  too  Irish  with  him.     I  haven't  told  you  the 

worst  yet. 

ROURKE 

Eh?    What's  got  him  worse  than  Imagination? 

BERRY 

Love! 

ROURKE 

In  the  heart,  is  it?  or  the  hat? 

BERRY 

Rourke,  be  sober.  You  may  guess  how  far  gone 
he  is,  when  I  tell  you  that  he  has  actually  fallen  in 
love  with  one  of  the  characters  in  his  own  play. 

ROURKE 

[Staring.] 
No,  by  St.  Patrick!     Poor  boy!    Poor  boy!    And 
him  too  living  in  such  jolly  apartments  as  this.     Well, 
here's  a  health  to's  sweetheart  —  the  Virgin  save  her! 


THE  PROLOGUE  23 

{Ladling  more  punch  and  humming.] 

''Let  the  toast  pass, 
Drink  to  the  lass, 
I'll  warrant  she'll  prove  an  excuse  for  the  glass." 

{Reenter  Felix,  with  a  manuscript.  At  the  same  moment, 
through  a  tapestry  which  hangs  on  the  wall  opposite  him, 
appears,  in  faint  light,  the  figure  of  a  girl.  She  makes 
toward  Felix  a  gesture  of  pathetic  appeal,  seeming  to 
beseech  him  for  his  manuscript;  then  disappears.] 

FELIX 

{Starting  forward.] 

Stay!  —  Sylvia! 

{He  pauses  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  moved,  oblivious  of  the 

others.] 

BERRY 

{Hurrying  to  him.] 
What  is  it? 

FELIX 

There!  —  Gone  again. 

ROURKE 
In  God's  name,  man,  what  ails  ye? 

BERRY 

Bring  some  wine. 

ROURKE 
{Patting  Felix  on  the  shoulder,  offers  him  his  glass  of  punch.] 
There,  there,  my  boy;  a  bit  of  a  swallow  will  fix  ye 
up. 


24  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 
Thanks,  no.    You  saw  nothing?    But  of  course  not. 

BERRY 

You're  not  well,  Felix.    Take  my  word;   these  are 

hallucinations. 

FELIX 

Hallucinations!    Why,  yes;    that's  the  name  psy- 
chologists give  them,  and  study  them  in  laboratories. 
But  is  not  love  an  hallucination?    Are  not  beauty, 
truth,  ideality,  hallucinations  too?    Do  they  not  take  ' 
on  forms  at  midday  and  mock  us  —  for  they  die? 

BERRY 

[Gently.] 
Felix— 

FELIX 
My  kind  friend  — 

BERRY 
I  beg  of  you  — 

FELIX 
[Quickly.] 
Do  you  believe  in  fairies? 

BERRY 
Fairies? 

FELIX 
Do  you  believe  in  water-nymphs  and  fauns,  in  sylvan 
creatures,  such  as  the  Greeks  worshipped,  before  ever 
Empedocles  put  clockwork  in  the  world? 

BERRY 
What  —  supernatural  beings? 


THE  PROLOGUE  25 

FELIX 
No,  natural. 

BERRY 

{Smiling.\ 

Fairies  of  flesh  and  blood? 

FELIX 
No,  for  so  they  would  not  be  fairies. 

BERRY 
Why,  what  do  you  mean,  then?    I  believe  such 
creatures  exist  merely  in  fancy. 

FELIX 

Exactly  —  where  we  all  exist.    Thank  you. 

ROURKE 

Faith,  you^re     welcome,  my  boy.    And  now  take 

a  smack  of  the  punch,  just  to  warm  up  your  superior 

apperceptions. 

FELIX 

[Smiles  faintly,  then  laughs^ 

Forgive  me.     Isn't  it  pitiful  —  what  a  fool  a  little 

laughter  can  make  of  a  man?     The  tragic  heart  has 

perfect  key;  but  screw  it  a  bit  in  the  ribs,  and  crack! 

It's  sharp  or  flat  —  part  of  the  common  discord. 

[Drinks  the  profered  punch.] 

ROURKE 
And  that's  right.    A  man's  head  is  the  balloon  of 
his  fancy,  and  in  it  he  makes  many  heavenly  excur- 
sions.   But,  boy,  he  must  stow  sufficient  ballast  in 


26  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

the  stomach,  or  else  —  good-by  to  the  earth!      He'll 
sail  away  up,  clean   through   the  gate  o'  St.  Peter. 

FELDC 

What  a  calamity  that  would  be! 

ROURKE 

It  would  indeed,  sir.     To  intrude  upon  the  propriety 

of  the  angels  is  not  decent  in  a  modest  man.     Your 

health,  sir. 

BERRY 

[Touching  his  glass  to  Rourke^s.] 

And  success   to   ''Sylvia!'' 

[They  sit.] 

ROURKE 
"Sylvia?"  —  The  name  of  his  play,  is  it? 

FELIX 
Partly;  the  play  is  called  —  ''A  Garland  to  Sylvia." 

ROURKE 
A  poor  name  altogether;   it's  not  catchy.     Call  the 
girl  Peggy  and  drop  the  Garland. 

BERRY 
Rourke,  you're  incorrigible. 
[Rourke  gives  a  solemn  sign  to  Berry  and  then  a  wink.] 

FELIX 
Shall  I  begin? 

BERRY 

Do.    By  the  way,  when  did  you  finish  it? 


THE  PROLOGUE  .   27 

FELDC 

I  haven't  finished  it. 

BERRY 

Haven't?    What  troubles  you? 

FELIX 

[Smiling.] 
The  ending. 

BERRY 
I  hope  you're  not  still  worrying  over  your  moral 
right  to  make  your  characters  what  you  please. 

FELIX 

Maybe  I  am,  for  I  want  them  to  be  true. 

BERRY 

But,  dear  boy,  what  has  truth  to  do  with  art? 

FELIX 

Or  art  with  moral  right,  you  would  say! 

BERRY 
Precisely:    the  best  morality  may  be  the  worst  of 

art. 

FELDC 

Yes,  and  the  worst  morality  —  may  it  be  the  best 
of  art? 

ROURKE 
Faith,  tis  the  only  kind,  sir!    Fine  art  is  like  fine 
cheese:   'tis  not  in  good  taste  till  it  smells. 
[Winking  across  at  Berry.] 
I  see  you're  no  connyshur,  sir. 


28  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 
[Musing.] 
So  you  think  that  in  my  play  — 

ROURKE 
Your  play,  is  it!  Ah,  now,  that's  not  a  matter  of  good 
taste,  but  good  business.  Serve  your  public  a  fine 
moral,  of  course.  But  the  main  thing  is  —  has  your 
play  got  action?  Keep  your  actors  hustling;  acting, 
sir,  acting;  what  else  are  they  for?  Keep  your 
audience  staring.  Startle  'em,  sir.  Make  the  men 
forget  their  bank  accounts,  and  the  women  their  dress- 
makers.   That's  the  test  of  a  play,  sir. 

FELIX 
I  agree  with  you  heartily.  But  may  I  ask  a  ques- 
tion? We  may  forget  our  money  troubles,  you  know, 
by  gazing  at  a  sunset,  or  we  may  forget  them  by  having 
our  corns  trod  on.  Now  just  which  means  of  oblivion, 
may  I  ask,  do  you  intend  here? 

ROURKE 
Sunsets,  sir,  don't  divert  a  man's  thoughts  from  his 
troubles.    I  never  saw  one  yet,  but  I  wondered  whether 
'twould  rain  or  not    for  the    evening's  performance. 
But  the  play,  sir:  show  us  your  play. 

FELIX 
[Handing  it.] 
This  is  the  manuscript. 


THE  PROLOGUE  29 

BERRY 
Read  it  yourself,  Felix.    Your  Dramatis  Personae. 

FELIX 

[Reads.] 

A  Garland  to  Sylvia.     Characters  — Men:  Sandrac,  an 
Oxford  Student  of  Astrology  and  Magic. 

ROURKE 
Of  what,  sir? 

FELIX 
Magic. 

ROURKE 

What  sort  of  a  plot  are  you  giving  us? 

FELEX 

A  fairy  tale. 

ROURKE 

Pish! 

[Berry  makes  a  sign  of  moderation  to  Rourke,  who  relights 
his  pipe  and  twinkles  at  him.] 

FELIX 

[Reads.] 
Sandrac  — 

ROURKE 
The  hero,  is  he? 

FELIX 

Yes. 

[Reads] 

Babblebrook,  a  courtier;  Ishmael  Sob,  a  curate;  Pierre, 
a  painter;  Alberto,  a  violinist. 

ROURKE 
Pish,  sir,  pish! 


30  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 
[Reads.] 
Hikrion,     a     woodcutter,      foster-father     of     Sylvia. 

Women:  — 

ROURKE 

Stop  a  bit.    Which  is  your  villain? 

FELIX 

I  read  his  name,  I  think:  Sandrac. 

ROURKE 
But  you  said  he's  the  hero. 

FELEX 

So  he  is. 

ROURKE 
[Chtickling.] 
Ay,  then,  Berry,  look  sharp.    Read  on,  read  on. 

FELEX 
[Reads.] 
Women  characters:  Sylvia  — 

ROURKE 
The  star,  I  presume. 

FELEX 

As  you  wish. 

[Reads.] 

Fervian,  Flurriel,  Fresca,  her  handmaids;  six  others  of 
her  handmaids;  wooers;  spirits  — 

ROURKE 
What's   that?  —  spirits?    No,  no,  m'  boy.     That's 
too  heavy  on  the  property  man.     Ghost  skirts  and 


THE  PROLOGUE  31 

moonKght  come  high.    Turn  'em  off;  they'll  lose  you 
twenty  per  cent. 

FELIX 
Thanks;  I'll  note  that  also. 

{Reads^ 
Act  First,  Scene:  The  Forest  of  Arden. 

ROURKE 
Arden!    Ha!    Poaching  in  Willie's  woods! 

FELIX 

Willie  himself  was  a  poacher. 
[Reads] 

Act  I. 

I  must  explain  to  you  that,  as  the  curtain  rises,  it 
is  early  dawn  in  the  forest.  For  the  first  moment  or 
two  nothing  is  heard  but  the  echoing  strokes  of  a 
woodcutter;  then,  from  different  directions,  are  heard 
two  voices  calHng  behind  the  scene. 
[Reads] 

FIRST  VOICE 

Woodchopper,  hoi 

SECOND  VOICE 
Woodchopper,  ho! 
[Enter  Babblebrook;  his  courtier's  dress  is  tattered  with  thorns: 
he  walks  limply  and  looks  worn  and  sleepy.] 


32  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

ROURKE 
He's  alone  on  the  stage? 

FELIX 
Yes,  the  curate  hasn't  entered  yet. 
[Reads.] 

BABBLEBROOK 

So  this  is 

The  wood  of  Arden  —  would  I  were  home! 

[Shouts,] 

Which  way, 
Good  Master  Woodchopper? 

THE  SECOND  VOICE 
[Calling.] 

Which  way? 

BABBLEBROOK 

[Shivering,] 

Snakes'  hisses! 
Voices!    Enchantment!    Did  it  answer,  eh? 
How!    Did  it  mock?    The  wood  is  voluble 
With  kisses  as  an  unlit  alcove.    I 
Shall  be  enzoned  with  nymphs,  and  made  a  gull, 

A  rape  of. 

[Driving  off  a  swarm  of  mosquitoes.] 

Shee!    They  cluster  now.    Fie!    Fie! 
As  thick  as  grapes  on  Bacchus.     Oh,  their  stings, 
Their  pepper-pinchings  and  their  back-bites,  sly 
As  ladies'  tongues.    Hence!    Hush  your  pipey  wings. 
Ye  gnats  and  knaves! 

[Babblebrook  kneels.] 


THE  PROLOGUE  33 

You  understand,  Mr.  Rourke,  to  the  audience  the 
scene  is  still  half  dark. 

ROURKE 
To  me,  it's  dark  entirely. 

FELIX 
[Reads.] 
O  courteous,  kingly  Sun, 
If  ever  thou  didst  smile  on  mortal  things 
Oh,  smile  on  'em  nowl    If  ever  thou  wert  known 
To  rise  in  the  morning,  get  up  nowl    This  day 
Break  not  thy  golden  rule.    Thy  will  be  done! 

[He  rises.     Enter  Sob;  neither  sees  the  other.] 

BOTH 

[Calling  together.] 
Who's  there? 

SOB 
A  voice! 

BABBLEBROOK 
A  njrmph! 

SOB 

O  Lord,  which  way? 

BABBLEBROOK 
I  will  not  be  seduced;  no,  though  it  be 
Circe  herself. 

[-He  steps  on  a  stick,  which  cracks;  alarmed,  he  draws  his 
sword.] 

BOTH 

[Calling  together.] 
Ho,  woodchopper! 
[A  loud  knock  at  Felixes  door.] 


34  A   GARLAND   TO  SYLVIA 

ROURKE 
Faith,   there  he  comes  now  —  chopping  the  door 
down! 

FELIX 
[Calls.] 
Come  in! 

[Enter  the  Proctor^ 

THE  PROCTOR 

Lights  out,  Mr.  Cloudsley. 

FELIX 

Lights  out!  —  at  this  hour? 

PROCTOR 
It's  near  midnight. 

FELIX 

Isn't  this  stretching  a  rule? 

PROCTOR 
I  have  reason  for  suspecting  disorderly  conduct  here 
to-night.    You  will  have  the  goodness  to  make  all 
dark  and  quiet  at  once.     Good  night. 

[Exit.] 

ROURKE 
[Jumping  up.] 
The  Proctor,  is  it? 

FELIX 

Yes. 

ROURKE 

Faith,  then,  we'll  have  him  in. 

[Slips  to  the  door,  and  calls  into  the  corridor.] 

Your  honor! 


THE  PROLOGUE  35 

PROCTOR 

[Outside.] 
What's  wanted? 

ROURKE 
The  ecstasy  of  your  society  by  the  flowing  bowl  of 

Hollis. 

PROCTOR 

Lights  out,  I  said! 

ROURKE 

[Returning.] 

Bedad,  then,  Mr.  Cloudsley,  we  must  even  be  quit- 
ting your  hospitaUty. 

FELIX 

I  am  truly  sorry,  though  it  gives  you,  sir,  a  fortunate 
chance  of  escape. 

ROURKE 

Not  a  bit,  m'  boy!    The  punch  might  have  been 

worse;  but  I'll  grant  ye  the  play  might  'a'  been  better. 

And  with  that   take  my  humble  advice:   don't  rim  a 

stage  ''elevator."     Stick  to  the  ground-floor  and  catch 

the  customers. 

BERRY 

Don't  let  this  disturb  you,  Felix.    It's  just  as  well, 
for  you  need  the  sleep. 

ROURKE 
[Shaking  Felixes  hand.] 
Good  night,  lad.    May  ye  keep  as  lively  as  your 
punch.     God  bless  ye! 


36  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 

Good  night,  sir.    Can  you  see  the  way? 

[To  Berry,  pressing  his  hand.] 

Good  night. 

[Closing  the  door,  he  turns  out  the  gas,  and  stands  in  the  fire- 
light.] 

People  are  kind,  yet,  except  for  kindness,  so  far 
sundered!  My  dearest  friend  stands  on  the  far  horizon 
of  my  soul,  whose  brim  ever  widens  before  me,  as  I 
run  to  reach  it.  Ah,  I'm  heart-weary  and  perplexed. 
To  finish  the  act  —  the  play  —  to  end  all  truly! 
Put  this  Sandrac  in  my  Sylvia's  arms?  God  curse 
him,  no!  What  to  do,  then?  But  first,  what's  true! 
What's  true? 

[He  takes  up  his  guitar  and  thrums  it  faintly y  with  pauses.] 

Could  Sylvia  love  him?  Take  him  to  her  heart? 
Could  such  a  union  be  and  heaven  allow  it?  No! 
Yet  he  alone  has  won  her;  for  only  he  of  all  has 
guessed  her  secret  worth,  and  she  has  promised  her 
heart  to  him  who  shall  guess  it.  Yet  how  could  she 
have  thought  —  have  fancied  even  —  that  such  a 
heart  as  his  could  construe  her  beauty,  and  still  cherish 
its  own  ugliness;  could  seek  her  love,  only  for  selfish 
rapture;  could  emulate  her  truth,  only  for  self- 
laudation?  Yet  Sandrac  does  so,  and  wins.  Or,  seems 
to  win?  Which?  Which?  I'm  soul-sick  with  the 
thought. 


THE  PROLOGUE  37 

[Sitting  in  front  of  the  dying  fire,  he  sings  to  his  guitar*] 

Who  is  Sylvia?    What  is  she, 
That  all  her  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair  and  wise  is  she: 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her 

That  admired  she  might  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  Hves  with  kindness. 
To  her  eyes  love  doth  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness. 
And  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

While  he  sings  the  second  verse,  Sylvia  enters,  as  before, 
through  the  wall  tapestry.  Noiselessly  she  crosses  to 
Felix,  and  is  about  to  touch  his  manuscript,  when  he 
turns  dreamily  and  looks  at  her.] 

Sylvia! 

[She  glides  to  the  wall;  he  follows,  supplicating.] 

Do  not  leave  me!     Speak  to  me  —  one  word  that 

I  may  believe  I  am  not  mad.    Tell  me  he  is  not  true 

—  Sandrac.     Tell  me  he  is  not  true.     Oh,  if  you  love 

me,  speak! 

SYLVIA 

[Pointing  to  the  manuscript^ 
Destroy  him. 

[She  disappears.] 

FELIX 
Gone!    But  she  loves  me.    Still  Sylvia  loves  me! 
Sandrac,  you  hear  ?     **  Destroy  him."     Ah,  now  it's 
*  The  music  to  the  song  is  that  of  Schumann. 


38  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

plain  as  day.     My  world  is  overturned.     My  play  — 
the  fire  —  my  manuscript!    They're  false,  these  lovers, 
and  Sandrac  falsest  of  all.     In  the  fire! 
[Snatching  his  manuscript  from  the  table,  he  tears  it  and 
throws  it  in  the  fire;  then  blows  the  flame  with  the  bellows.] 

Hearth  —  be  my  heart!  Heat,  be  hell  itself! 
Flames,  you  are  love,  love,  love!  It  burns,  it  burns! 
There  you  go,  Babblebrook,  Alberto,  Sob  —  and  you, 
you,  Sandrac,  my  changeling  soul,  all  —  all  in  the 
fire!  At  last,  they  die  —  now  they  have  passed  from 
me  utterly.  "Destroy  him!"  Now  it  is  done! 
Sandrac  dead  —  and  Sylvia  loves  me  — 

[Burying  his  face  in  his  arms,  he  sobs.] 
Dear  God!    Joy  is  such  sweet  grief! 
[Enter  at  back,  the  Students,  in  masks  and  long  gowns  of 
white  and  crimson.     Each  figure  carries  a  lighted  candle. 
They  enter,  single  file,  and  surround  Felix,  who  —  buried 
in  his  own  feelings  —  does  not  see  them.] 

WARTON 
[Nudges  Hugh,  who  is  the  leader  of  the  pageant;  all  speak  in 
whispers.] 
Now,  Merriman! 

HUGH 

Curse  it,  man,  I  haven't  the  heart  to. 

WARTON 
Twaddle!  —  he  said  he  sighed  for  the  privilege. 
[Hugh    coughs   to    attract   Felix's   attention.      The   Second 
Student  pokes  Hugh  in  the  ribs,  whereat  the  others  give 
sound  to  stifled  giggling.] 


THE  PROLOGUE  39 

SECOND  STUDENT 

Go  it,  Grand  Mogul! 

HUGH 

\Whispers,\ 
Quit,  will  you? 

[He  coughs  again.  Felix  raises  his  head,  and  looks  at  the 
masked  figures,  all  of  whom  raise  their  candles  in  their 
right  hands,  and,  stooping,  stare  at  him.] 

FELIX 
[Murmurs.] 
The  initiation!    Now? 

[They  beckon  with  their  candles.    Felix  rises,  smiling.] 
Mysterious  gentlemen,  you  are  welcome. 

[He  makes  a  mock  reverence,  and  they  bow  in  return.] 
I  hope  you  enjoyed  a  pleasant  passage  on  the  Styx? 

WARTON 
[At  Hugh's  ear.] 
Speech  now,  Sir  Pluto. 

HUGH 

[In  a  loud  whisper.] 
Shut  up.  Warty. 
[Hugh  waves  with  his  candle,  Felix  follows  him  to  the  chair 
in  front  of  the  fire.] 

FELIX 
That   way,   your   reverence?    I   await  your   com- 
mands.    What,  must  I  sit?  —  Nay,  gentlemen,  after 
you.    You  are  my  guests. 


40  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

[The  maskers  nudge  one  another^  tittering;    then  —  all  to- 
gether —  repeat  Hughes  gesture  to  be  seated.] 

You  insist?    Why,  then,  if  that's  the  fashion  in 

Hades, 

[Sitting,  he  addresses  Hugh,  and  points  to  the  fire.] 

won't  you  sit  opposite  there,  and  be  comfortable? 

[The  students  snicker  again.  Hugh  signs  to  two  maskers, 
who  come  forward,  hind  'Felixes  eyes  with  a  handkerchief, 
and  tie  him  to  the  chair.  This  done,  the  whole  crowd  of 
students  gather  round  Felix  in  a  hubbub  of  whispers. 
Hugh  motions  silence  and  commences  in  a  deep  bass 
voice.] 

HUGH 

0  Felix,  felicissime  hominum,  tibi  ferimus  — 

FIRST  STUDENT 
[Nudging  Hugh.] 
Sst!    What's  that? 
[Hugh  pauses.    The  students  listen.    Hugh  resumes^ 

HUGH 
—  tibi  ferimus  et  gloriam  et  — 

[The  door  opens  suddenly;  the  Proctor  enters.] 

PROCTOR 
Gentlemen! 

STUDENTS 

[Scrambling.] 

Lights  out!    Lights  out! 

[They  blow  out  their  candles.] 


THE  PROLOGUE  41 

PROCTOR 
What  is  the  meaning  of  this? 

STUDENTS 
The  Proctor! 

WARTON 
Mum,  there! 

HUGH 

Hist,  Warty;  this  way! 
[The  studentSy  jostling  the  Proctor,  scurry  of  through  the 
corridor.] 

PROCTOR 
Gentlemen,  this  is  disgraceful.    This  shall  be  re- 
ported. 

[Exit.] 

[The  sound  of  their  receding  footsteps  grows  faint  and  ceases, 
Felix  struggles  to  rise.] 

FELIX 
Tied  —  blindfold  —  tied!      How   silent  —  and    how 

black! 
What  does  it  matter!    Now  behind  these  bands, 
Imagination,  which  was  Milton's  lamp. 
Shall  be  my  candle,  and  light  my  muse  to  build 
A  strong,  illustrious  theatre  in  the  dark  — 
This  dark,  which  is  the  dawn  of  reverie. 
The  building-place  is  cleared;  the  refuse  past 
Is  swept  away;  nothing  obstructs  me  now. 
Sandrac  is  dead  and  Sylvia  loves  me.  —  Now! 
[The  fire  flickers  out  into  Darkness.^] 
^  The  curtain  does  not  fall. 


OF    -ri. 


42  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Scene  Second.    Act  I  of  ''The  Reverie.** 

[Out  of  the  darkness  sounds  the  echoing  stroke  of  an  axe; 

dimly  in  gradual  dawn  the  outlines  of  a  forest  scene 

grow  visible.    Felix  is  then  discernible.    His  chair  has 

turned  to  the  gnarled  root  of  a  great  tree,  beneath  which 

he  sits  pensive,  motionless  as  an  image.    His  gown  has 

turned  gray  and  his  whole  appearance  misty.  Beside 

him  stands  an  Aged  Figure,  majestic,  cloaked,  and  still. 

Where  the  hearth-fire  shone  before,  now  shimmers  a  nest 

of  glow-worms.    Outside,  the  strokes  of  the  axe  sound 

more  loud;  then,  echoing  through  the  wood  — two  voices, 

calling.] 

FIRST  VOICE 
Woodchopper,  ho! 

SECOND  VOICE 

Woodchopper,  hoi 

[Enter  Babblebrook  ;  his  courtier's  dress  is  tattered  with  thorns, 

he  walks  limply  and  he  looks  worn  and  sleepy.'} 

BABBLEBROOK 

So  this  is 
The  wood  of  Arden  —  would  I  were  home  I 
[Shouts,] 


Good  Master  Woodchopper? 


Which  way, 


SECOND  VOICE 
[Calling.] 

Which  way? 

BABBLEBROOK 
[Shivering.] 

Snakes*  hisses! 
Voices!    Enchantment!    Did  it  answer,  eh? 


THE  REVERIE  43 

How?    Did  it  mock?    The  wood  is  voluble 

With  kisses  as  an  unUt  alcove.    I 

Shall  be  enzoned  with  nymphs,  and  made  a  gull, 

A  rape  of. 

[Driving  off  a  swarm  of  mosquitoes.'] 

Sheel    They  cluster  now.    Fie  I  fie! 
As  thick  as  grapes  on  Bacchus.     O  their  stings. 
Their  pepper-pinchings  and  their  back-bites,  sly 
As  ladies*  tongues!     Hence!     Hush  your  pipey  wings, 
Ye  gnats  and  knaves! 

[Babblebrook  kneels.] 

O  courteous,  kingly  Sun, 
If  ever  thou  didst  smile  on  mortal  things, 

0  smile  on  *em  now!    If  ever  thou  wert  known 
To  rise  in  the  morning,  get  up  now!    This  day 
Break  not  thy  golden  rule.    Thy  will  be  done! 

{_He  rises.   Enter  Sob  ;  neither  sees  the  other.  ] 

BOTH 
[Calling  together.] 
Who's  there? 

SOB 
A  voice! 

BABBLEBROOK 
A  nymph! 

SOB 

O  Lord,  which  way? 

BABBLEBROOK 

1  will  not  be  seduced ;    no,  though  it  be 
Circe  herself. 

[He  steps  on  a  stick,  which  cracks;   alarmed,  he  draws  his 
sword.] 


44  A   GARLAND   TO  SYLVIA 

BOTH 
^Calling  together, 2 
Ho,  woodchopperl. 
iBoth  recoil  and  pray.     Outside,  the  axe  resounds  again,  and 
in  the  intervals  of  its  strokes,  a  strange  voice,  ranging  from 
basso  to  falsetto,  sings. 2 

THE  VOICE 

A  hard  hand  and  a  hove  hand,  hoi 

Maketh  the  big  oak  bend. 
The  monarch  that  sitteth  so  grand,  hoi 

Leans  to  a  lowly  end. 
With  high  and  low  of  every  kind, 
Old  Death  he  hath  an  axe  to  grind. 

God  give  us  grace  to  mend  I 

BABBLEBROOK 

It  fades. 
Where  is  the  voice? 

[Outside  the  axe-stroke  ceases;  a  shrill  warning  cry  is  heard; 
then  a  loud  crack  and  whirr  of  foliage,  as  a  tall  tree  falls 
thundering  in  the  background.  Babblebrook  and  Sob,  rush- 
ing  wildly  to  escape  its  fall,  run  accidentally  into  each  other's 
arms.] 

BABBLEBROOK 

HelpI^ 

SOB 
HelpI 
[Sob  clings  convulsively  to  Babblebrook,  who,  in  a  frenzy  of 
fear,  extricates  himself] 

BABBLEBROOK 

Ofif,  Echo-nymph!  —  Sham  I 


THE  REVERIE  45 

Back!    I'm  no  innocent;  I*m  a  devil  of  blades. 
I  know  the  skirt-tribe  to  their  shoe-lacings. 
Begone;  I'm  old  in  the  art;  you  cannot  cram 
Me. 

SOB 

Gentle  woodman,  are  you  he  that  sings 
In  the  forest? 

BABBLEBROOK 

"  Woodman?  "     "  Woodman!  "     Sylph,  'tis  true 
That  I  have  supped  with  princes,  dined  with  kings. 
Yet  now  am  "  woodman."     Nut-brown  is  my  hue! 
I  am  thy  faun,  Diana. 

[^Attacking  Sob  fiercely. '\ 

Drink  the  dregs 
Of  love  and  death,  which  — 

[Pausing  wonderstruck,] 

Lady  Alicia!  who 
Are  you? 

SOB 

No  njrmph;  a  modest  man,  who  begs 
Your  grace:  a  curate,  sir,  in  misery. 

BABBLEBROOK 
Thank  God! 

SOB 
How,  sir? 

BABBLEBROOK 

Those  skirts  about  your  legs 
Played  false;  but  Heaven  be  praised  you  are  a  he, 

[Embraces  Sob."] 
Yotir  name,  palpable  modest  man! 


46  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SOB 

Sob,  sir; 
Ishmael  Sob. 

BABBLEBROOK 

\^With  a  sweeping  bow.'] 

And  mine's  Sir  Balliol 

Babblebrook  —  by  the  sex  sumamed  "  Sanscoeur." 

And  now,  friend  Ishmael,  let  us  end  our  stroll 

In  peace;  'tis  time  I  sought  my  destination; 

I  am  a  lover. 

SOB 

So  am  I,  my  lord. 

BABBLEBROOK 

"  My  lord: "  lip-loving,  luscious  deliquationi 

Speak  it  again. 

SOB 

My  lord  — 

BABBLEBROOK 

O  sugar 'd  word  I 
It  melts. 

SOB 

My  lord,  I  love  — 

BABBLEBROOK 

Peace,  fool!    You'll  smother 
All  the  nine  Muses  with  your  ignorance. 
You  are  too  fleshly.     I  am  quite  another 
Sort.     I  am  kiss-accoutred.     I'm  Romance 
Anthropomorphized!     Your  miasmic  moons 
And  midnight  are  my  forte,     I  like  this  dance 
In  the  underbrush  —  rather.     For  the  starry  boons 
Of  a  lady's  eyes,  I  plunge  into  the  briers. 
And  range  the  wood  for  lions;  read  the  runes 


THE  REVERIE  47 

Of  rotted  stumps  for  mushrooms  (Romance  requires 
A  stomach,  and  the  stomach  seeks  base  earth), 
And  thus,  by  knightly  quests,  I  fan  the  fires 
Of  my  fierce  love  for  Sylvia,  and  her  worth. 

SOB 

[^Sighing.'\ 
And  so  do  II 

BABBLEBROOK 

Thou  liestl 

SOB 

Sheathe  thy  blade, 
My  lord  I    Heaven  witness  that  I  ne'er  spoke  mirth 
I*  my  life.    This  Sylvia  whom  I  seek*s  a  maid 
Who  makes  her  rustic  dwelling  in  this  wood 
With  her  old  foster-father.    Yet,  'tis  said. 
Though  she  is  shy,  she  comes  of  as  gentle  blood 
As  any  lady  rides  in  London. 

BABBLEBROOK 

Zounds  I 
'Tis  she.    Speak:  is  she  rich? 

SOB 

She  must  have  treasure; 
Vast  treasure,  too,  my  lord,  for  there's  good  grounds 
To  guess  she's  royalty,  whom  high  displeasure 
Has  hid  in  this  far  forest. 

BABBLEBROOK 

And  you  think, 
Miscreant  curate,  she  would  have  thee? 

SOB 

Please  your 
Lordship,  'tis  like  she  does  not  know  the  link 


48  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

To  her  birth,  being  found  a  babe;  but  after  all, 
Even  if  she  does,  from  me  she  should  not  shrink, 
For  man  is  man  —  a  noble  animal. 

BABBLEBROOK 
True,  hag;  but  not  in  shameless  petticoats 
Like  thine.     I'U  show  thee  man. 

[Plunges  at  him  with  his  sword,  striking  far  off  the  mark,  but 
terrifying  Sob.] 

Base  curate,  fall  I 
Fight!    Flee  I    Fade!      This   is    man.      Man   slives   the 

throats 
That  speak  profane  praise  of  his  mistress'  face ; 
Exhale,  then!  —  Soft!     If  you  be  dead  and  gone, 
I'll  be  alone  in  this  nymph-haunted  place. 

[Extending  his  arms,  with  a  smile.'] 
Ishmael! 

SOB 

[As  they  embrace.] 
'Save  you,  sir. 

BABBLEBROOK 

Love's  not  a  bone 

To  squabble  over.    Love  should  cofraternize. 

Come! 

SOB 
Where? 

BABBLEBROOK 
To  Sylvia:  for  hark,  mine  ownl 
There  lives  a  man  to  damn  our  enterprise: 
A  base  astrologer,  a  youth  profound 
In  Alchemy  and  black  art.     He's  named  Sandrac. 
He  has  two  acid  eyes  that  peer  around 
And  smile  at  you,  like  culprits  in  the  hand-rack. 


TEE  REVERIE  49 

SOB 
Heaven  shield  us,  sir  I    What  of  him  ? 

BABBLEBROOE 

This:  he  has  come 
On  foot,  over  dale  and  down,  through  wood  and  sand  track, 
To  find  out  Sylvia  and  to  take  her  home 
With  him. 

SOB 

What  I  have  you  seen  him? 

BABBLEBROOK 

Yes,  I  crossed 
His  path  last  eve.     So  hasten  I    For  if  we 
Be  last  to  Sylvia,  Sylvia  will  be  lost 
To  us,  —  or  what's  more  apropos,  to  me. 
Hal    Here's  our  woodman. 

[Enter  Hikrion,  with  an  axe,  singing.'] 

HIKRION 
What  is  strong. 
And  lasts  long. 
Sing  it  a  song  — 
Cheerily  O! 

Time,  time. 
That  sits  in  the  slime. 
Ring  him  your  rhyme  — 
Wearily  OI 

[At  Eikrion^s  song,  the  Aged  Figure  beside  Felix  stirs  and 
touches  him  on  the  brow.  Felix  lifts  his  head,  and 
wakens  slowly  to  conscious  attention.] 


50  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

BABBLEBROOK 

Good  day,  old  good  fellow. 
You  pipe  up  early. 

HIKRION 

Ah  I    Good  day  to  ye, 
My  pretty  masters.    Be  you  two  the  mellow 
Night-birds  I  heerd  coo  up  the  larks  o'  late? 

BABBLEBROOK 

How  mean  you?   Birds  1 

HIKRION 

Their  note  was  "  Hello  I  Hello  I  " 
A  sweet  wood-wooing. 

BABBLEBROOK 
ManI 

HIKRION 

A  singular  trait; 
{^Jerking  his  thumb  at  Soft.] 
Ye*ll  tell  the  hen-bird  by  her  feathers. 

BABBLEBROOK 

Peasant, 
Beware  I    This  worthy  gentleman's  my  pious 
Friend.     So,  beware  the  birch-stick. 

HIKRION 

Dear,  it*s  pleasant, 
To  meet  with  modesty,  aren't  it? 

BABBLEBROOK 

Zacharias 
And  Judas!    Upstart,  I  will  teach  thee  whether 


TEE  REVERIE  51 

The  modest  mode  be  taught  by  swine,  or  by  us 
Of  better  breed. 

\He  draws  his  sword  and  makes  a  lunge  at  Hikrion,  who,  with 
a  twinkle,  catches  it  away  from  him;  then  examines  it, 
whistling  softly.] 

HIKRION 
A  mighty  smart  tail  feather! 
I  guess  I'll  fetch  it  home  to  Sylvia. 

BABBLEBROOK 
\^Gasping.^ 

Who? 
HIKRION 

I've  got  a  daughter  kep*  to  home.  —  Fine  weather, 
Aren't  it?    Good  morning. 

BABBLEBROOK 

Hold!    Hold!    Take  us,  too, 
Good  Hikrion.    Art  thou  not  Hikrion, 
Her  noble  father?    Stay! 

SOB 

Wait,  sir!  we  woo 
Your  heavenly  daughter  — 

BABBLEBROOK 
[Thrusting  Sob  aside.'] 

Peace,  thou  jackass'  son!  — 
O  Hikrion,  great  hermit  of  the  grove! 
Far-famed  forester!  know,  I  am  one 
Who  come,  uplift  like  Diomede  to  Jove, 
To  sue  from  thee  thy  daughter.    I  admire, 
Nay,  worship,  nay,  adore,  nay,  like,  nay,  love  — 
Thy  daughter.    But  I  first  address  her  sire. 


52  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

As  doth  become  Sir  Balliol  Babblebrook. 

Speak!    I*m  your  servant,  sir:  behold  my  squire; 

Use  him  for  what  you  will. 

SOB 
Nay,  by  the  Book  — 

BABBLEBROOK 
[To  Sob.} 
Hush  I    Shall  we  two  be  rivals? 

HIKRION 

My  queer  daughter 
Catched  many  a  queer  fish  on  her  beauty's  hook. 
But  none  with  such  a  gill  as  this.     She's  caught  a 
Bull-head  here. 

[To  Babblebrook.] 

So,  Sir  Diomede,  you  think 
To  win  my  Sylvia? 

SOB 

^Intervening.'] 
Aye,  sir. 

BABBLEBROOK 

iPushing  Sob  away.  ] 

I,  by  sueing 
Her  noble  sire. 

HIKRION 

[  With  a  sly,  knowing  glance.  ] 
Then  let  the  blind  horse  wink, 
The  cat  steal  cheese,  the  mice  do  all  the  mewing. 
[With  a  skip  and  a  merry  scowl,  he  peers  close  in  the  faces  of 
Babblebrook  and  Sob.] 


THE  REVERIE  53 

Come,  masters  I    By  my  curls,  that  look  like  horns, 
Come  on  I    I'll  show  ye  the  woodland  way  o'  wooing. 
[Exit,  skipping  to  his  song.~\ 

See!  the  oak 
Turns  to  smoke 
In  chimney  choke, 
Drearily  OI 

But  peat  o'  the  mire 
Flames  in  the  fire. 
And  flies  higher  — 
Airily  OI 

[During  the  song,  Felix  rises  and  listens  as  it  dies  away  in 

the  forest.] 

[Babblebrook  and  Sob  stand  staring  after  Hikrion.] 

BABBLEBROOK 
Sob  —  Sob! 

SOB 
My  lord  I 

BABBLEBROOK 
Lead  on  I 

SOB 

The  highest  bom's 
The  first,  my  lord. 

BABBLEBROOK 

Slave!  dost  thou  fear  the  thorns? 

SOB 
[Touching  his  head."] 
The  horns,  my  lord. 


54  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

BABBLEBROOK 

[Trembling.] 
The  horns? 

SOB 

He  is  not  made, 

Methinks,  like  common  men.    He  walks  uncanny, 

And  then  — 

[Makes  the  sign  again.'] 

BABBLEBROOK 
[Drawing  close  to  Sob.] 
What!  did  you  note  'em? 
{They  whisper,  with  timid  gestures.    Meantime,  Felix  —  leav- 
ing the  Aged  Figure  standing  by  the  tree — approaches 
them,  looks  them  in  the  eyes,  touches  their  garments. 
Seeing,  however,  that  they  pay  no  attention  to  him,  he 
turns  pensively  away,  as  if  trying  to  remember.] 

FELIX 

What  dream  is  this, 

Where  thoughts  I  have  written  rise  up  in  palpable  flesh 

And  make  a  ghost  of  me? 

BABBLEBROOK 

But  he  said 
That  they  were  curls,  not  horns. 

SOB 

Sir  I  put  not  any 
Trust  in  his  guile. 

[They  whisper  again.     Felix  draws  nearer.] 

BABBLEBROOK 

What,  what!    His  knees?    His  knees  I 


TEE  REVERIE  55 

SOB 
Did  not  you  mark  their  crook? 

\They  whisper  again.'] 

FELIX 

Those  words  —  those  words: 
''His  knees?    Did  not  you  niark   their  crook?"  — 

What  wind, 
Moaned  from  what  muffled  cavern  of  my  mind, 
Sighs  in  my  ears  these  sounds?  — "  His  knees ! — Did  not 
You  mark  their  crook?  "  —  Ha,  Babblebrook  and  Sob! 
Now,  now  I  know  them! 

BABBLEBROOK 

A  satyr  of  yore? 

FELIX 
Right;  that's  right;  those  are 
The  very  words!    He  took  his  cue.    Now  comes  — 
^'For  shame!    Such  monsters  haunt  mythologies." 

BABBLEBROOK 

For  shame  I    Such  monsters  haunt  mythologies. 
Thou  slave  of  superstition,  go  before! 

SOB 


But  if  — 


Stay! 


BABBLEBROOK 

I'll  have  thee  hanged  for  heresies! 
[Soh  precedes  Babblebrook,  and  they  go.] 

FELIX 
[Following  them.] 


56  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Stand,  elusive  shadows!    Stop,  I  say! 
'Tis  I  command  you  —  your  creator,  Felix.  — 

[The§  disappear  in  the  wood.] 

Gone  —  gone!     Could  I  not  even  hold  their  hems 
Between  this  waterish  thumb  and  forefinger? 
What!    Is  my  frame  dissolved,  like  a  salt-pillar 
In  the  humid  air?    Am  I  a  water-wraith 
That  I  should  blow  through  unsubstantial  lips 
These  pale,  prismatic  bubbles  of  no  sound? 
And  this  intangible  wood,  where  now  I  walk 
Numb-footed,  like  a  friar  in  the  frost,  — 
What  tenebrous  dream  is  this?  —  Ahnost  I  seem 
A  bodied  breeze,  for  when  my  pulses  beat. 
Shrill  zephyrs  whistle  through  my  reedy  veins 
And  puff  my  ribs  with  foam  of  their  own  essence. 
Yet  I  am  Felix  still,  and  this  is  Arden, 
Where  I  have  wandered  many  a  pensive  hour, 
Tending  my  flocks  of  fancies;  ah!  but  then  — 
Then  —  they  were  made  of  mist  as  I  am  now. 
Where's  Sylvia?    She  will  make  me  real  again 
As  her  own  cheek  of  rose. 

[He  crosses  toward  the  right,  where  Sandrac  enters.  The  two 
gowned  figures,  Sandrac  in  black,  Felix  now  in  misty 
gray,  walk  toward  each  other,  till  —  almost  meeting  — 
Felix  sees  Sandrac,  and  recoils,] 

Sandrac!    O  (k)d! 


THE  REVERIE  57 

SANDRACi 
This  is  the  verdurous  and  virgin  shore 
Where  the  wan  night-wave  heaves  its  tide  of  lovers 
On  odorous  dunes,  with  violets  sprinkled  o*er; 
And  here  land  I,  with  Sylvia's  amorous  drovers, 
Who  are,  in  love,  such  umpires  of  her  worth 
As  cows,  in  art,  are  connoisseurs  in  clovers. 
Then  well  for  me,  and  for  the  Muses*  mirth, 
That  such  they  are,  for  I'll  the  sooner  win 
And  wed  this  Sylvia's  heaven  to  my  earth. 

FELEX 
Sandrac,  the  sophist!     He  it  is,  and  lives, 
Breathes,  walks  again !     I  rent  him  limb  from  loin, 
Tore  out  his  festered  heart,  dripping  with  speech, 
And  cast  him  headlong  all  into  the  fire; 
Yet  wizard  now,  like  Satan's  salamander, 
He  slips  again  into  the  voluble  air 
And  prates  of  sin,  as  Socrates  of  virtue. 
Ah  God,  /  made  him! 

[SANDRAC] 
A  secret  Sylvia  has:  there  let's  begin. 
Sylvia  shall  keep  her  secret  safe,  unless 
Some  suitor,  to  her  maidenly  chagrin. 
Shall  answer  three  set  questions.    If  he  guess 
These  right  (of  which  the  chief  is:  "  What  is  she?  ") 
The  lover  wins  the  stakes  of  loveliness 
And  Sylvia's  treasure's  his.    Now,  let  us  see: 
What  is  this  treasure? 

^  Like  Babblebrook  and  Sob,  Sandrac  remains  totally  oblivious  of 
Felix. 


58  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 

'Tis  as  far  from  your 
Just  heritage  as  heaven  from  hell's. 

[SANDRAC] 

Is  it  procurable 
By  such  as  I? 

FELIX 

Yes  — God 

Forgive  me  in  my  ignorance !  —  for  I 
Have  placed  in  your  apostate  hands  the  key 
That  imlocks  all  her  shrines. 

[SANDRACl 
Men  think  that  alchemy 
Is  my  black  art,  but  men  are  wondrous  dull. 
For  poesie  is  all  my  secret  power 
Which  says:  Win  golden  Beauty  I    Then,  never  fear  it, 
The  beauteous  gold  of  fame  shall  be  her  dower  j 
Nay  more!  which  tells  me  Sylvia  is  — 

FELIX 

Forbear! 

[SANDRAC] 

A  spirit. 
FELIX 

Curst  be 


Your  knowledge!    Curst  be  I,  that  taught  it  you 


[SANDRAC] 
A  fairy  princess,  whom  blockheads  in  bliss 
Suppose  a  princess  royal;  for  they  judge 
That  fairies  are  but  fictions;  so  they  miss 
The  wealth  would  give  them  royal  power.     But  fudge  I 
I  am  not  of  these  fools. 


THE  REVERIE  59 

FELIX 
Would  God  you  were!    So  you  had  never  aspired 
To  wrest  from  Sylvia  her  throne,  and  reign 
Nero  of  Arcady.     But  no!  you  shall  not. 
What!    In  your  hand,  her  sceptre  —  which  is  now 
A  benison  of  beauty  —  would  become 
An  engine  for  all  ugliness.     Turn  back! 
Go;  I  rescind  you! 

[SANDRAC] 

Ah  I  here's  my  woodman 
Pan,  in  disguise. 

FELIX 

Sandrac!  —  Deaf  as  the  dead! 

[^Enter  Hikrion,  with  a  willow-switch  driving  before  him  Sob  and 

Babblebrook;    the  latter  is  laden  down  by  a  ponderous 

weight  of  logs  and  brushwood,  the  former  is  groaning  under 

the  weight  of  two  pails  of  water,  which  hang  from  a  yoke 

on  his  shoulders.^ 

HIKRION 

Come,  pretty  masters,  budge! 
Sir  Diomede,  this  is  the  Olympic  mood,  man; 
Your  uncle  Phoebus  woo*d  i'  the  wood  way:  mark  iti 
KsukI    Ksuk! 

BABBLEBROOK 
[Groaning.^ 
O  London  I 

HIKRION 

Budge;  we're  late;  budge. 

SANDRAC 
[Calling.^ 

GoodmanI 
[Hikrion,  who  is  whistling,  pays  no  heed.'] 


6o  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SOB 
Grace,  Lord  I 

HIKRION 

Who  taps  the  maple  first  must  bark  it; 
The  sap  is  Sylvia. 

SANDRAC 

Goodman,  leads  this  path 
To  Sylvia's. 

HIKRION 
[^Tuming.^ 
Yea,  I  drive  these  to  her  market. 
[Touching  up  Sob  with  his  switch  and  clucking  with  his  cheek.'] 
Ksuk,  Dobbin! 

SOB 
Grace! 

HIKRION 

The  sinner  feels  his  wrath: 
Spare  not  the  rod. 

[To  Sandrac.'] 

Join  you  this  circus,  sir?  — 
A  privilege  every  suitor  of  Sylvia  hath. 

BABBLEBROOK 
#  [^Seeing  Sandrac  for  the  first  time,"] 

Nay,  by  my  lady  Alicia,  1*11  not  stir 

An  inch,  if  he  goes  —  Satan  give  him  riddance! 

I  know  him  for  a  vile  astrologer. 

An  alchemist.  —  Kind  woodman,  give  me  credence! 

First  come,  first  serve. 


THE  REVERIE  6l 

SANDRAC 
[Bowing,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,'] 

I  pray  you,  give  precedence 
To  Sylvia's  London  suitors.    I  will  follow. 

HIKRION 

So  be  it.     Quoth  the  donkey  to  the  ass: 

Come  bear  a  burden!    Trol-lee  —  trollo  —  troUoI 

Nay,  quoth  the  ass,  your  burden  is  too  bass: 

A  lighter  one  is:  Hollo  —  hollo  —  hollo! 

[Exeunt  Hikrion,  Sob  and  Babblebrook.  Sandrac  pauses  a 
moment,  smiling  to  himself.  Felix  stands  guard  over  him 
and,  at  his  first  motion  to  follow  the  others,  steps  in  his 
path.] 

FELIX 

You  shall  not  pass.    For  this  way  Sylvia  lies.  — 

[Pointing.] 
That  way,  return! 

SANDRAC 
How  pleasantly  a  poet's  fancies  pass  I 

FELIX 
[Attempting  to  thrust  him  back.] 

Stand  back!    By  heaven,  no  farther! 
You  think  to  browbeat  me  too? 

[Sandrac  passes  on  through  Felixes  arms,  as  through  a  mist, 
and  exit  in  the  wood.] 

Ah!    Tm  naught. — 
No,  no !    Stay  your  inevitable  feet, 
Sandrac!  —  Return!  —  God  help  me,  I^m  weak,  weak. 


62  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

[He  sinks  back  for  support  against  the  gnarled  tree.  Here 
the  Aged  Figure,  turning y  takes  him  in  his  arms.  Felix 
looks  in  his  face  with  awe.] 

What  are  you? 

THE  FIGURE 

Somnus  I  am  called.     This  wood 
And  you  are  mine. 

FELIX 

Then  hide  me  in  your  breast, 
For  I  am  faint  at  heart. 

[Somnus  folds  Felix  in  his  cloak.] 
[CURTAIN.] 


ACT  n 


ACT  II 

Scene  I:  A  room  in  Sylvia's  cottage;  at  back,  a  great  fire- 
place, within  which,  on  either  side,  are  two  stone  chimney- 
seats. 

Sylvia  and  her  nine  handmaids  discovered;  Sylvia  is  playing 
battledoor  and  shuttlecock  with  Flurriel;  the  others  look 
on,  clapping  and  laughing,  except  Fervian,  who  stands 
aside,  watching  them  pensively. 

SYLVIA 
Fasterl 

FRESCA 

Brave  battledoor! 

SYLVIA 

Now  serve  it  over 


Their  heads. 


There! 


A  saucy  boy. 


FLURRIEL 
[Striking.} 

SYLVIA 

Hoi  you  box  it  sidewise,  like 


FLURRIEL 

Now,  like  a  naughty  lover: 
First  bandy  him,  then  jilt  him;  so! 

SYLVIA 

Fair  strike! 
F  6s 


66  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FERVIAW 
This  game,  I  thought,  was  shuttlecock,  not  punning. 

SYLVIA 
Thy  wisdom,  girl,  like  a  gray,  greedy  pike, 
Gulps  all  the  twinkling  minnows  of  our  funning. 
Hahal    Well  hit  I 

iFervian  turns  away,  hurt,^ 

FLURRIEL 
[^Panting,'] 
Enough  I 

SYLVIA 

Why,  Flurriell 
What  is  the  matter? 

FLURRIEL 
Breath!  —  My  heart  is  running 
Like  Daphne,  with  Apollo  at  her  heel. 

SYLVIA 
iLaughs.^ 
The  fashion  of  your  flesh  is  too  tight-fitting. 

FLURRIEL 

Would  I  could  let  a  tuck  out! 

SYLVIA 

So  you  will 
To-night,  when  we  shall  all  disrobe  us,  quitting 
This  mortal  millinery.    Yet,  o*  my  heart! 
I  like  this  garb  of  Mother  Nature's  knitting; 
'Tis  very  pretty  —  mine  is  —  and  its  art 
Is  exquisite.    Look! 


THE  REVERIE  67 

[Holds  out  her  hand.'\ 

Saw  you  ever  a  glove 
To  fit  like  this?  —  at  once  the  counterpart 
And  covering  of  the  spirit!     Or  know  you  of 
A  jewel  in  the  jetted  lace  of  a  queen 
As  bright  as  Fervian*s  dark  eye,  whose  love 
Darts  its  own  loveliness? 

FERVIAN 

What  can  it  mean? 
You  call  me  "  greedy  pike,"  and  then  relent  — 
Praise  my  dark  eyes  I 

SYLVIA 
[Laughs.'] 

Poor  sober-sides!  —  Why,  I'm 
A  votress  at  the  shrine  of  merriment, 
Where  you,  a  kneeler  in  this  temple  of  time, 
Are  scandalized  to  see  my  altar  scrolled 
With  little  winged  jests  for  cherubim, 
Cupids  for  saints,  in  chasubles  of  gold 
High  chanting  shrilly  hymns  of  laughter.    Yet, 
Sad  pilgrim,  know,  that  in  this  temple  old 
Are  countless  shrines;  where  countless  stay  their  feet 
To  tell  their  beads  with  Aves  manifold. 
Whilst  to  one  theme  both  sighs  and  jests  are  set  — 
That's  Faith,  dear. 

FERVIAN 

[Embracing  her.] 
Sylvia! 

FLURRIEL 
[At  the  window,  laughing.] 

Rtm,  mistress!    RunI 


68  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

THE  OTHER  HANDMAIDS 


What  is  it? 

Look! 


FLURRIEL 

HANDMAIDS 
iLaughing,^ 
OPanI 

FLURRIEL 
[To  Sylvia.} 

Run  quickly  I    Hide  I 
SYLVIA 
What's  coming?  —  Why,  *tis  only  Hikrion. 
He's  bringing  firewood  home  with  his  pack-asses. 

FLURRIEL  , 

Aye,  but  the  hose-and-doublet  fashion 
O'  the  beasts!  —  the  two-legg'd  species:  —  the  jack-asses! 

FLURRIEL 

Nay?    Are  they  mortals?    Poor  dears!    I've  a  bone 
To  pick  with  Hikrion. 

[Enter  Hikrion.] 

HIKRION 

Here  I  am  back,  lasses. 
Old  Father  Early- Worm  has  catched  some  birds. 

HANDMAIDS 
[Clinging  about  him.] 
What  have  you  brought  us,  Pater?    Tell,  tell,  tell! 

HIKRION 
Peace,  pretties;  Patience  gets  the  cream  o'  the  curds, 
But  Fidgets  licks  the  cold  spoon. 


Sour  daughter? 


THE  REVERIE  69 

SYLVIA 

Sweet  dad,  — 

HIKRION 

WeU, 

[^Bowing.~\ 
Craving  your  grace!  —  Queen  Sylvia. 

SYLVIA 
What  have  you  brought  us? 

HIKRION 

Sweets  for  an  epicure: 
A  blackberry,  a  raspberry  and  a 
Gooseberry;  or,  to  swap  the  literature, 
A  shark,  a  gold-fish  and  a  porpoise;  or 
A  rook,  a  parrot  and  a  fatted  hen. 

SYLVIA 

Tut!  tut!    We  know  whom  youVe  been  beating.  Pater. 

[Hikrion  hangs  his  head.'] 
Your  brush-wood  could  not  hide  'em.  —  They  are  men, 

HIKRION 
And  you  can  smile?    You  make  me  a  maid-hater. 
"  Ah  me,"  said  they,  "  'tis  all  for  Sylvia!  "    Dear! 
Dear!  how  my  heart  ached;  so  I  bid  'em  wait  a 
Bit  before  jogging;  but  they  wouldn't  hear 
On't.     No,  'twas  ever:  "  Commend  us  to  thy  daughter, 
The  gentle  Sylvia!  —  the  tender  maiden! 
For  her  our  backs  are  broke;  give  us  more  water, 
More  logs,  sweet  Hikrion;  we  are  not  laden 
Enough  for  gentle  Sylvia.'* 


70  A   GARLAND   TO  SYLVIA 

[TT/M  a  twinkle  and  a  sudden  skip.^ 
To  be  shorter, 
Have  I  'scaped  scolding  this  time? 

SYLVIA 

When  you're  arrayed  in 
Such  wool,  old  wolf,  you'd  win  Titania. 
[She  embraces  him  with  a  laugh;  he  kisses  her  with  a  tender 

humorousness.      Flurriel  at   the  door-crack    beckons   to 

Fervian.'] 

FLURRIEL 

Sister, 
Let's  peek. 

FERVIAN 

[Approaching  curiously. ~\ 
Fiel 

FLURRIEL 
Thou'rt  afraid? 

FERVIAN 

Dost  think  we  can  — 

[They  peep  through  the  door -chink,'] 

SYLVIA 
When  jestings  smart,  let  love  go  heal  the  blister. 
[Spying  Fervian  and  Flurriel.'] 

Oh,  Doctor  Venus!    Flurry  and  Fervian 

Have  lost  their  hearts  already.    So,  then!  —  Sol 

Reap  penance  I    Each  shall  have  the  other's  man: 

[To  Fervian.] 
The  courtier's  thine; 

[Pointing  at  Flurriel.] 

the  curate  —  hers. 


THE  REVERIE  71 


To  make  wit  of. 


FLURRIEL 

[Aside,} 

PERVIAN 

Poor  swains  I 


Here's  woe  — 


SYLVIA 

Her  whom  they  scan 
First,  they  will  take  for  Sylvia.    Therefore  show 
Them  queenly  courtesy.    But  give  me  Pan 
To  pipe  me  wood-songs  till  the  pink  o'  day. 
1*11  have  no  other  swain.     Come,  Hikrion,  — 

[Pulling  him  by  the  beard,'} 
Come,  Mossy-beard,  let's  cry  alack-a-day 
To  love,  and  while  we  dance,  sing  every  one. 
[Sylvia,  dancing  with  Hikrion,  who  has  a  blithe  skip  in  his  step, 
and  the  others  dancing  with  them,  sing  the  following  song.} 

SYLVIA 

If  a  maiden  say  thee  nay, 
Cry  to  love,  Alack-a-day  I 
She  will  alter  never 

Never  I 
But  will  still  pers^ver 
Everl 
In  her  wilful,  wilful  way. 

HIKRION 

Therefore,  lover,  hie  thee  back; 
All  thy  hopes  must  go  to  wrack. 
Cry  alack,  alack,  alack! 
Oh,  love,  alack-a-dayl 


72  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

ALL 
Cry,  alack-a!  lack-al  lack-al 
Lack-al  lack-a-dayl 

SYLVIA 

If  a  maiden  say  thee  nay, 

Lover,  cry,  alack-a-dayl 

She  will  never,  never  falter:  — 
Not  unless  her  mind  should  alter 

In  a  wondrous,  wondrous  way  I 

HIKRION 
Therefore,  maidens,  come  away  I 
Crjdng;  Never  1  nay,  nay,  nay! 
Sighing;  Lack  a  lover  ay? 
Love,  O  lack-a-dayl 

ALL 

Sighing:  Love,  I  lack  a  lover; 

Love,  O  lack-a-day! 

lAt  the  end,  Sylvia  with  her  arm  about  Hikrion  dances  out, 

right,  with  graceful,  gay  abandon,  followed  by  the  others, 

dancing.     Flurriel  and  Fervian,  the  last,  pause  on  the  edge 

of  the  scene.'] 

FERVIAN 

I  the  courtier  —  thou  the  curate  I 
Sister,  how  shall  we  endure  it? 

FLURRIEL 
Only  spirit- craft  can  cure  it. 


Dost  thou  hear? 


[  Whispers.'] 


Tell  me,  dear. 


THE  REVERIE  73 

FERVIAN 

FLURRIEL 


Sober  taciturnity, 

Staid  religion,  pleases  thee; 

Wagging  tongue  and  wit  for  me  I 

[Taking  out  a  small  gold  wa/.] 

Use  then  this^  and  thou  shalt  see 

Merry  wonders.     At  its  zest. 

Each  shall  have  what  suits  her  best; 

For,  by  means  of  this  sly  nurture, 

A  knight  shall  don  a  monk's  deporture, 

And  a  curate  change  to  courtier. 

[Knocking  at  the  outer  door,  Flurriel,  in  hurried  whispers, 
shows  Fervian  how  to  smear  liquid  from  the  vial  upon  her 
left  hand.  This  she  does.  The  knockings  grow  louder. 
Exit  Flurriel  in  laughter, 2 

FERVIAN 
Saints  1  what  dint 

Come  in  —  come  in! 

[Enter  Babblebrook,  bowed  under  a  great  pack  of  firewood^ 
strapped  to  his  shoulders.^ 

BABBLEBROOK 

Art  thou  the  bell  which  struck  that  heavenly  tone, 
That  silvery  mandate? 

FERVIAN 

What,  good  sir? 

BABBLEBROOK 

"  Come  in." 

It  fell  upon  my  heart  like  wedding  bells. 


74  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Or  like  the  sweet,  premonitory  din 
That  preludes  dinner-time. 

FERVIAN 

Sir,  what  impels  — 

BABBLEBROOK 

Bid  me  not  be  a  sandalled  Capuchin 

To  nurse  chilblains,  and  fast  on  mackerels 

In  a  monastery;  yet  such,  beauteous  maid, 

Must  be  my  fate  if  thou  disdain  me.    Lol 

Fair  Sylvia,  I  kneel! 

[Kneeling,  he  loses  his  balance;  the  load  of  fire-logs  is  precipi- 
tated, with  a  crash,  upon  the  hearth;  thus  prostrate,  he 
addresses  her.^ 

I  love  you. 

FERVIAN 
[Aside,] 

Aid 
Me  now,  quick  magic  I 

[As  if  to  assist  him,  she  extends  her  left  hand;  he  seizes  lY.] 

BABBLEBROOK 

Queenly  maid,  I  know 

This  matchless  hand  without  more  introduction. 

A  subtle  influence  makes  me  aware 

Thou  art  the  sylvan  njntnph  of  my  seduction. 

Time  flies,  and  wooers  flock.    To  arms  I    I  swear 

[^Kisses  her  hand.^ 

Even  by  this  kiss  - 

FERVIAN 

[Aside.'] 
The  magic  works! 


THE  REVERIE  75 

BABBLEBROOK 
[Glowering,  starts  from  her  gloomily.'] 

Abduction  I 
[He  stalks  away.] 

O  woman  1  —  sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal! 
[Exit,  at  back.] 

FERVIAN 

0  man  I  poor  patch-quilt,  stitched  by  Clotho's  thimble! 

[Exit,  right.] 

[Enter  Flurriel,  dragging  Sob  after  her  through  the  outer  door. 

Running  to  a  chair,  she  places  opposite  it  another;  in  these 

they  sit.] 

FLURRIEL 

[As  she  enters.] 

Come,  merry  Master  Sob,  come  in!    This  is 

The  game.    Here,  sit,  so! 

SOB 

As  my  rule  applies, 

1  do  not  play  games.  Madam  Sylvia. 

FLURRIEL 

Oh, 

But  this  one's  wise;  it  treats  of  cooking.  —  Eyes 

This  way!    Hands  flat! 

[Here  Flurriel  teaches  Sob  the  hand  pantomime,  which  consti- 
tutes the  familiar  nursery-game  of  ''Pease-porridge  hot,'* 
wherein  Sob  manifests  the  extremity  of  awkward  confusion. 
Enter  Sylvia,  who  looks  on  unobserved.] 

SOB 
So? 


76  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 


FLURRIEL 
lNods.2 

Good.    Now,  out!  —  No,  no! 
Then  upl 

SOB 
But  what  — ? 

FLURRIEL 

Now! 
lAside."] 

In  a  wink  or  two. 
The  honey's  magic  on  my  mouth  shall  turn 
The  spirits  of  my  bumble-bee. 

[  With  increasing  rapidity,  Flurriel  alone,  then  Flurriel  and  Sob 
together,  repeat  the  following ;] 

Pease-porridge  hot, 

Pease-porridge  cold, 
Pease-porridge  in  the  pot 

Nine  days  old. 
Some  like  *em  hot. 
Some  like  *em  cold. 
Some  Uke  'em  in  the  pot 
Nine  days  old. 
[Breaking  into  peals  of  laughter,  Flurriel  kisses  Sob  on  the  lips, 
and,    taking  both  his  hands,  dances  twice  round;   then, 
pushing  him  toward  the  outer  door,  turns  and  runs  the 
other  way;  there,  seeing  Sylvia,  she  stifles  her  laughter  and 
exit.     Sob,  at  the  instant  of  the  kiss,  is  transformed;  in 
the  doorway,  reeling  and  hilarious,  he  bawls  out  to  Sylvia,'] 

SOB 
Some  like  *em  hot. 
Some  like  *em  cold, 


THE  REVERIE     '  77 

Some  like  *em  in  the  pot 
Nine  days  old. 

We'lldol 
'Odd's  porridge-pots  I  we'll  do  I 

lExit,'\ 

SYLVIA 

Can  lovers  yearn 
For  lunacy!  —  for  honey'd  lips,  that  skew 
The  garb  of  nature  inside  out,  and  sear 
Even  with  the  senses'  first  satiety? 
How  otherwise  is  love! 

[Enter,  from  without,  Felix  and  Somnus;  the  latter,  after 
pointing  out  Sylvia  to  Felix,  immediately  retires  outside. 
Felix  goes  swiftly  to  Sylvia,  who  is  standing  in  a  brown 
study,  and  addresses  her.] 

FELIX 
Sylvia,  at  last  I  find  you.     Sylvia!     Mute? 
Love,  even  you?    Are  you  too  held  from  me 
Like  a  white  goddess  in  the  unhewn  marble 
Whom  only  Fancy  sees?    Are  you,  too,  walled 
Incarcerate  within  this  reverie. 
This  crystalline,  cold  castle  of  conceit? 
And  through  its  adamant  of  moated  silence 
Is  all  incursion,  all  egress,  denied? 

[SYLVIA] 

True  love  makes  clear 
Man's  natural  aptitudes,  lifts  them  to  be 
His  eternal  goads  to  service. 


78  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 
My  words!  —  still  mine.     I  am  hung  round  with  them 
As  with  wove,  pictured  tapestries,  through  which 
My  muffled  heart  cries  out  in  vain,    O  Sylvia! 

SYLVIA 

[Sfming  as  from  a  trance.] 

Felix! 

[She  holds  out  her  hands  to  him;  he  Udies  them  passionaUiy 
and  kisses  them.] 

FELIX 
Thank  God!    I  am  alone  no  more. 

SYLVIA 
I  have  much  needed  you.    How  did  you  come? 

FELIX 
I  know  not  how,  beloved;  but  I  know 
That  this  is  you,  and  where  you  are  joy  is. 

SYLVIA 
Who  brought  you  here? 

FEUX 

An  old,  strange  man;  his  name 
He  said,  is  Somnus. 

SYLVL\ 

He! 
\With  pitying  scrtitiny.] 

Poor  FeKx! 


THE  REVERIE  79 

FELIX 

Tears? 
0  Cjod!    I  had  forgot  my  errand.    You 
Must  leave  this  place  —  and  now!  Near  by,  there  lurks 
A  troop  of  suitors,  seeking  out  your  hand: 
Two  are  poor  numbskulls,  harmless;  but  the  third  — 
Ah  me!  —  how  shall  I  name  him?    He  is  base, 
Yet  beautiful  in  quick  perceptions.    He, 
By  lancing  with  his  eye  the  breast  of  heaven 
To  drink  cold  Nature's  milk  of  starHght;  by 
Probing  the  hearts  of  roses  for  their  fragrance; 
By  chemistry  of  logic,  his  black-art; 
But,  most,  by  that  rare,  subtle  sense  of  beauty, 
Whose  seed,  sown  in  the  reason,  blooms  to  a  poet,  — 
He,  by  these  means,  dear  love,  has  guessed  your  secret, 
And  comes  even  now,  brooding  ambitious  rape 
Of  your  dominions  and  your  precious  self. 

SYLVIA 
Sandrac,  you  mean. 

FELIX 

You  know  him,  then?    Ah,  true; 
This  living  dream  has  steeped  my  memory 
In  mist.  —  Fly  from  him,  Sylvia! 

SYLVIA 

Fly?    You  bid 

The  baited  fawn,  when  the  big  hounds  bark  near, 

To  fly !  —  WiU  she  not  plead  to  fly? 

FEUX 

You  mean  — 


So  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SYLVIA 
I  mean  that  you  have  plighted  me  to  Sandrac 
And  shackled  us  with  inevitability. 
You  bid  me  fly,  yet  force  me  still  to  stay 
To  tread  the  mazes  of  your  comedy. 

FELIX 

How  could  I  guess  —  Ah!    hear,  love,  my  defence  I 

SYLVIA 
The  mightiest  defence  is  penitence. 
Recall  your  lofty  promise,  when  you  sought 
Me  first;  retrace  its  fall  —  your  fall;  then,  will 
Its  resurrection  —  which  is  yours. 

FELIX 

I  will! 
If  only  I  could  wear  your  fetters  now 
Even  as  a  red-hot  mail  of  brass,  how  I 
Would  smile  to  do  it!    Recall  how  first  I  sought 
And  foimd  you?    Always!  —  Dreaming  after  tasks 
In  college,  on  a  snowy  twihght,  when 
The  bells  had  ceased  —  my  Plato  laid  aside  — 
I  pored  upon  your  song  young  Shakspere  sang, 
TiU  ''Who  is  Sylvia?"  pealed  through  all  the  hush 
Miraculous  chimes;  and  there,  a  sudden  genius, 
You  stood  —  above  your  forehead,  the  first  star! 

SYLVIA 

Your  star! 

FELIX 
You  then,  a  spirit  free  as  air, 
I  sunk  in  clay.     You  —  ardent  for  my  earth, 


THE  REVERIE  8i 


I  —  for  your  heaven.     There,  rapt  in  wonder,  I 
Besought  you  come  and  dwell  in  my  world;  you, 
Besought  me  how.    Do  you  remember? 


SYLVIA 
[Smiling  tenderly.] 


Felix! 


FELIX 
So  then  I  told  you  of  a  middle  land, 
That  borders  half  on  Fancy,  half  on  Reason  — 
A  magic  bourne  where  spirits  and  mortals  meet, 
Named  in  the  inner  world  Imagination, 
In  the  outer,  called  the  Stage.    There,  if  you'd  come, 
I'd  give  you  vesture  of  fair  flesh  and  blood, 
Not  such  as  mortals  ache  and  languish  in, 
Nor  such  as  saints  and  goddesses  take  on 
In  mural  tints  and  marble;  but  live  speech 
That  vaults  like  rapture  through  immortal  veins. 
And  pours  sweet  influence  in  the  ears  of  men. 

SYLVIA 
'Twas  beautiful!    And  even  as  Spring  gives  thanks 
To  every  flower  that  breathes  her  to  the  world, 
I  blessed  each  teeming  thought  of  yours,  that  gave 
My  yearning  heart  expression. 

FELIX 

So  you  did. 

And  those  your  blessings  fell  like  fragrant  showers. 

But  there  was  more.     Within  that  middle  land, 

I  said,  we  two  should  meet.    I  should  cut  out 

G 


82  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

My  airy  likeness  from  the  stuff  of  fancy 

To  clothe  my  own  true  being.    Thus  we'd  be 

Eternal  lovers  in  our  play  of  time. 

SYLVIA 
Why  could  it  not  have  been! 

FELIX 

Pondering  upon, 
Your  spirit  powers,  the  realm  you  promised  me. 
And  the  homage  men  would  pay  me,  in  the  throne 
Of  strong  success,  'twas  then  that  in  my  brain, 
Self-bred,  with  sudden  rupture  and  sick  pang, 
Sandrac  was  bom. 

SYLVIA 
Ah,  horrible! 

FELIX 

At  first, 

I  thought  him  beautiful  as  he  seemed  wise. 

For  he  was  versed  in  such  Socratic  art 

As  made  me  deem  —  heaven  help  me!  —  that  you 

loved  him; 

That  he,  not  I,  deserved  your  sovereign  joy. 

And  therefore,  with  a  mawkish  self-deceit, 

I  inveigled  you  for  him  into  my  play 

And  plighted  you  as  lovers.  — Ah!    but  hear  me! 

SYLVIA 

[Changing.] 
Good  bye! 

FELIX 

Where  are  you  going?    Sylvia! 


THE  REVERIE  83 

SYLVIA 

Back 
Into  the  play. 

FELIX 

But  you  are  free! 

SYLVIA 

No,  no; 
You  chose  a  happy  moment,  when  my  part 
Was  in  soliloquy,  which  for  a  little 
Left  me  my  freedom :    Now  —  ah,  now  I  feel 
The  irresistible  wires  compel  me. 

FELIX 

Oh, 

That  I  should  make  of  you  a  dial-puppet 
To  obey  the  petty  clockwork  of  my  mind! 

SYLVIA 
Farewell,  my  Felix!    Keep  your  faith.    Though  I 
Be  lost  —  a  silvery  dove,  in  your  soul's  fog-bank. 
Still,  while  you  grope  and  call  for  me,  your  mate, 
Know  that  I,  too,  will  seek  you  as  the  sunlight. 

FELIX 
You  shall  not  need.    My  will  shall  be  a  wind 

To  rend  those  mists. 

SYLVIA 

[Struggling  against  the  change^  which  begins  to  overwhelm  her.] 

Alas!    It  whirls  me  on 

To  utter  your  irrevocable  lines. 


84  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 
Say  not  irrevocable !     Sandrac  —  he 
Will  come' 

SYLVIA 

It  must  be. 

[Oblivious f  and  transformed  in  manner,  she  turns  to  Flurriel, 
who  enters.'] 

FELIX 

Never  !  Sylvia! 
Dissolved!  —  dissolved  like  foam  in  the  black  current; 
The  stream  flows  on;  and  I  alone  on  the  bank! 

[SYLVIA] 

What  now,  dear? 

FLURRIEL 
Another  wooer,  mistress  —  the  Oxford  scholar 
Is  coming  up  the  wood-path. 

SYLVIA 

Then  you'll  please 
Me,  Flurry,  by  receiving  this  new  caller. 
Nay,  cozen  him  with  any  coquetries 
You  will.     He'll  think  you're  Sylvia,  I  dare  say. 

FLURRIEL 

That's  it;  he  must,  if  he  should  see  me  first. 
I  warn  you,  then;  he'll  think  you  witless. 

SYLVIA 

Mercy! 
I  hope  he  will,  my  dear!    I  have  no  thirst 
For  lovers,  or  their  praises;  for,  from  hearsay, 


THE  REVERIE  85 

They  are  a  fickle  species.    Better  burst 
With  laughter  than  with  love,  say  I.    Adieu  I 

[Exit,'] 

FLURRIEL 

Strange!  when  I  saw  this  wooer  through  the  casement, 

It  set  me  all  ashiver.    I  feel  blue. 

Yet  why? 

[^She  stands  pondering,'] 

FELIX 
I'll  tell  you,  Flurriel. 

[FLURRIEL] 

I  wonder  what  his  smiling  face  meant? 
The  smile  was  more  a  scowl  than  — 

FELIX 
Do  not  trust  him. 

[FLURRIEL] 

[Looking  through  the  casement,  gives  a  startled  cry,~\ 

I'll  hide  too. 

[Exit.] 

FELIX 

[Shouts.] 

Flurriel 

Flurriel!  —  So,  still  doomed  to  the  dumb  failure! 

When  I  still  swayed  these  beings  with  my  pen, 

And  felt  them  stirring  in  my  ink,  like  fish,  ' 

Nibbling  the  bait  of  fancy  —  ah!  when  I 

Paced  my  book'd  study  with  a  beating  heart 

And  gazed  them  in  the  face  with  my  soul's  eye. 

Then  —  then,  I  lorded  over  them.     I  saw 


S6  A   GARLAND   TO  SYLVIA 

Them  plain,  yes,  plainer  than  I  see  them  now 

I  made  them  speak,  laugh,  scheme  —  my  puppet  show, 

Fingered  them  like  a  god,  in  short,  yet  now 

The  waxworks  I  devised  walk  away  from  me. 

By  heaven!  it  shall  not  be.    They're  mine;    they're 

mine; 
I  made  them;    'twas  my  will.  —  Ah,  me!  my  will!  — 
Too  true  —  my  will!    O  Sylvia,  was  that  I, 
Who  bodied  him  —  him,  gave  him  clay  of  thought, 
Where,  like  a  hermit-wasp,  in  his  mud  nest. 
He  might  secrete  and  cherish  his  foul  sting. 
And  then,  bid  him  sting  —  youl    No,  no,  he  shall  not! 
He's  mine,  I  say!    He  must  not,  shall  not,  live! 
iSaTidrac,  knocking  softly,  enters.    Somnus  follows  him  in.] 

SANDRAC 

May  I  come  in? 

FELIX 

And  still  he  lives,  and  talks  with  a  dead  tongue. 

[SANDRAC] 
None  here?    'Tis  quick  erasement; 
I  saw  a  pretty  profile  on  the  pane 
A  moment  since. 

[Felix  approaches  Sandrac  with  a  look  of  scorn;   Somnus 
steps  calmly  between  them.     Enter  FlurrieW] 

Ah,  here  I  —  Is  this  the  home 
Of  Hikrion  and  his  daughters? 

FLURRIEL 
[Assuming  a  dignity.'] 

'Tis,  sirl 

% 


THE  REVERIE  87 

SANDRAC 

Then 
Send  Sylvia  here. 

FLURRIEL 
[Between  fear  and  amazement.'] 
Su-?  —  Sylvia? 

SANDRAC 

Bid  her  come 
To  meet  a  stranger. 

FLURRIEL 
[Aside,  withdrawing  slowly,] 
Does  he  jest,  or  feign? 
Takes  he  not  me  for  Sylvia? 

SANDRAC 

[Knitting  his  brows,] 

Well? 

[Flurriel  frightened,  curtsies  and  exit,   Sandrac  looks  round  him, 

smiling.] 

Her  room  I 
FELIX 

What  will  he  do?    My  mind  is  spinning  round. 

I  have  forgot  the  sequence  of  this  scene. 

[During  the  rest  of  the  sceney  Felix  watches  all  with  a  tense 

and  painful  curiosity.] 

[Reenter  Flurriel,  bringing  Fervian,] 

FLURRIEL 
[Aside  to  Fervian.] 

He  saw  through  me  at  once.    I  tried  in  vain 
To  cozen  him. 


SS  A   GARLAND   TO  SYLVIA 

FERVIAN 
[With  quiet  dignity,  to  Sandrac.^ 

Good-day,  sir.    I  am  called 
To  meet  a  stranger? 

SANDRAC 
Yes,  a  jewel-seeker, 
Whose  eye  can  sift  green  glass  from  emerald. 

FERVIAN 

Why,  so  this  maid  has  told  me;  you  were  quicker 
To  spy  her  paste  out  than  the  amateur. 

SANDRAC 

Quite  so;  and  still  less  shall  I  cry  "  Eurekal  '^ 

Now  on  beholding  you.    Where's  Sylvia?      Her 

I  sent  for. 

FERVIAN 

WeU,  sir? 

SANDRAC 

Tush!    I  know  you  two; 
I  seek  your  mistress,  not  her  maids. 

FLURRIEL 
lAside  to  Fervian.'] 

He's  bent 
On  finding  her.    Alas!  what  shall  we  do? 

FERVIAN 
[Proudly  to  Sandrac,~\ 

I  know  not  by  what  right  of  high  descent. 
Or  worth,  you  lord  it  here.    You  came  to  woo, 
Methinks,  and  not  to  wield  the  sceptre  of 
Supremacy. 


THE  REVERIE  89 

SANDRAC 
What  matters  that  to  you 
Why  I  came  here? 

FERVIAN 

My  life,  sir;  for  I  love 
My  —  my  — 

[^Stops  confused J\ 

SANDRAC 
Your  mistress,  Sylvia;  —  say  it  I 

FERVIAN 

Yes, 
Since  by  the  theft  of  some  bright  power  above, 
You  have  unlocked  her  secret,  I  confess 
That  we  are  Sylvia's  handmaids.    But  I  adore 
My  mistress;  ere  my  lips  shall  syllable 
Her  secrets,  I'll  be  dumb  for  evermore. 

FLURRIEL 
{^Clinching  her  teeth.'] 
Our  hearts  are  locked  with  ivory  chains. 
SANDRAC 

Well,  welll 
You  will  unfasten  them  if  you  are  wise. 
What,  never?    Why,  then,  they  may  need  a  spell 
To  ope  them,  like  the  Sleepmg  Beauty's  eyes. 

FELIX 
What's  that? 

SANDRAC 
WhistI    Listen! 

[He  brings  his  face  close  to  FlurrieVs.] 
Gentle  spirit! 

[Whispers  to  her,] 


go  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FLURRIEL 

FervianI    Save 
Me,  save  I 

SANDRAC 
[To  Fervian.'] 

How  fares  thy  fairy  princess,  she 
Who  frolics  as  a  maid  by  day? 

FERVIAN 

You  ravel 

SANDRAC 
Nay,  she  to  whom,  by  moonlight  minstrelsy. 
Thou  singest:  "Who  is  Sylvia?"  —  Dost  thou  speak? 
Art  thou  not  "  dumb  for  evermore?  " 

FELIX 
That  I  could  silence  him! 

[Somnus  restrains  Felix.] 

FERVIAN  AND  FLURRIEL 

\_KneeUng.^ 

Great  master  I 

FERVIAN 

Pity  for  Sylvia  I 

SANDRAC 
Nay,  though  she  is  weak 
And  I  am  strong,  such  knowledge  need  not  blast  her. 
I  know  her  secret;  therefore  by  her  vow 
She  needs  must  wed  me;  yet  I'll  haste  no  faster 
To  bind  her  spirit-crown  upon  my  brow 
Than  is  in  keeping  with  a  maid's  convention 
And  my  own  convenience.    Till  to-night  I  allow, 
When  I'll  make  formal  shrift  of  my  intention 
Before  her  Fairy  Court.    There  I  have  sworn  its 
Accomplishment. 


THE  REVERIE  91 

FERVIAN 
But  — 

SANDRAC 

If  you  give  detention 
To  my  desires,  I'll  have  you  stung  with  hornets 
And  smeared  with  vinegar. 

FELIX 
O  baser  than  all  beasts! 

[SAKDRAC] 

I'll  keep  my  eye  on 
You  both.  —  When  shall  we  meet? 

FERVIAN 

When  through  the  torn  nets 
Of  silken  eve,  bursts  the  sun's  glaring  lion, 
And  shakes  his  golden  mane,  with  bloodshot  eye, 
Then  blinks  and  lays  him  couchant  'neath  Orion, 
Come  forth  and  meet  us  in  the  wood  near  by. 
We'll  show  you  Sylvia. 

SANDRAC 
\_SmiUngf  takes  up  his  cloak.'\ 
I  shall  be  there. 

FLURRIEL 
[On  Fervian's  shoulder,  sobbing.^ 

And  I. 
FERVIAN 

[Faintly,] 

And  I. 

FELIX 

[As  Somnus  beckons  him  away  —  looks  back  at  Sandrac.] 

And  I. 

[curtain.] 


92  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 


SCENE  II:  Twilight;  the  edge  of  the  wood,  with  Sylvia's 
ivy-grown  cottage  against  a  golden  wing  of  the  sunset  A 
path  leads  to  the  cottage,  through  a  stile  in  the  garden- 
hedge.  Near  by,  a  jet  of  gleaming  water  is  pouring  into  a 
quiet  fountain. 

Enter,  left,  Alberto,  playing  improvisations  on  his  violin. 
He  wanders  back  and  forth,  pausing  at  times  with  his  ear 
bent  lovingly  over  his  instrument,  lost  in  the  rapture  of  his 
own  strains.  He  is  followed  by  Pierre,  who  pays  slight 
attention  to  the  music.  In  a  bustling  manner,  he  seeks  to 
find  the  right  position  for  his  easel,  which  —  after  shifting 
about  and  scrutinizing  the  sunset  between  his  hands,  and 
with  slanted  cheek  —  he  unfolds,  and  sets  up  in  front  of 
the  cottage.  Here  he  sits,  looking  off  right  to  the  set- 
ting sun,  and  commencing  a  sketch.  From  the  opposite  side 
enter  Felix  and  Somnus.  They  stop  and  listen  to  the 
touching  cadences  of  Alberto^ s  violin.] 

FELIX 
Hark !     'Tis  the  love-sigh  of  a  sad  immortal 
Breathed  to  a  mortal  maiden!  —  How  the  sound 
Yearns  through  the  solemn  wood,  and  emulates 
The  silver  diapason  of  a  thrush. 

[They  draw  nearer.] 
O  hark  again,  and  still!     His  instrument 
Is  strung  with  rushes  of  a  naiad's  lute. 
And  modulated  with  an  angePs  wand. 

SOMNUS 
His  is  the  mightiest  voice  in  my  dominions. 


THE  REVERIE  93 

[Alberto  sits  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  seeming  to  follow  a  bird's 
flight  with  his  eyes.    Felix  approaches  him. 

FELIX 
Strange  boy,  I  love  you  dearly;  yet  I  envy, 
For  you  are  the  bard  of  that  blind  eloquence 
Which  rages  in  my  soul  when  words  fall  wingless; 
And  robed  in  your  melodious  imagery. 
My  longing  speaks  colossal  metaphor. 
Oh!  is  it  not  stinging,  Somnus,  that  this  lad 
May,  with  a  subtle  finger-touch,  unhinge 
Heaven's  gate,  and  scatter  tumultuous  angels  over 
The  world.    Yet  I,  who  made  him,  I,  who'd  bleed 
My  soul  out  to  infuse  my  instrument, 
My  play  (of  which  these  men  are  stops  and  strings) 
With  thoughts  that  loom  in  me  divine  and  vast, 
I  cannot  wake  in  him  one  chord  —  but  silence. 

SOMNUS 
He  and  his  instrument  are  one,  this  bow 
Is  but  another  member  of  his  body; 
This  violin  his  outward  heart.    But  you 
Are  all  at  odds  and  angles,  in  rank  discord, 
With  a  fair  instrument  xmstrung. 

FELDC 

Tis  so. 

[Taking  up  the  violin j  which  Alberto  hcLS  momentarily  laid 

down.] 

How  I  could  love  this  carven  creature!    Tell  me. 


94  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Sweet  viol,  where  now  is  all  thy  rapture  flown? 
Is  it  sipp'd  up  by  those  pied  forest-birds 
Thy  master's  eyes  are  following?    Is  it  carried 
Off  in  their  throats  to  the  cedary  faun,  thy  father, 
Who  quaffs  the  eternal  sap  of  wordless  song 
From  his  rough  bark-vats?    Or  still  does  it  linger 
Here,  like  remember'd  music  of  the  waves 
Lodged  in  the  smooth  ear  of  a  pink  sea-shell? 

[Lays  the  violin  down,  and  crossing  to  Pierre,  looks  over  his 
shoulder  while  he  paints.] 

Gods!  how  this  fellow  daubs  his  thumbs,  to  cram 
His  sated  palette  with  sick  greens  and  yellows, 
With  never  a  thought  of  the  heaven  he  means  to  paint! 

SOMNUS 
He  is  industrious.    Look,  he  will  give  you 
A  yellow  for  a  yellow,  when  all's  done. 
[Alberto  begins  to  play  again.] 

FELIX 
But  not  a  symbol  for  a  symbol.     See 
Where  Twilight,  like  a  sable-cowled  monk, 
By  one  white  taper,  plies  his  solemn  task:    , 
With  crimson  scroll  and  golden  hieroglyph 
To  emblazon  on  the  sombre  nave  of  night 
The  annals  of  the  day  that  has  just  died. 
Let  him  translate  that  gorgeous  epitaph 
Truthfully  here,  not  copy  it  like  Sanskrit; 
So  only  may  he  hope  to  fill  the  souls 
Of  men  with  his  own  immortality. 


THE  REVERIE  95 

SOMNUS 
You  find  the  heavens,  then,  full  of  human  meanings? 

FELIX 

I  find  a  heavenly  meaning  still  in  man. 

SOMNUS 
Nature,  for  you,  has  thoughts  ? 

FELIX 

Far  more!    For  me, 
This  world's  the  self-communing  mind  of  Nature, 
Who,  like  Athene,  yet  unborn  of  Jove, 
Imagines  all  that  is,  and  earth  and  heaven 
Are  but  the  content  of  her  helm.     Even  so 
The  night-domed  zenith,  crystalline  with  worlds, 
Is  the  awful  arc  of  her  imponderous  skull; 
The  roseate  east  and  west  her  pulsing  temples. 
Flushing  her  thoughts  in  sunsets  and  in  mornings; 
The  coruscating  stars  and  meteors 
Are  flashes  of  her  cerebration,  struck  — 
Like  sparks  that  crackle  through  the  cable's  coil  — 
From  magic  fluid.     Thus  earth,  air  and  all 
Convolving  forms  of  cloud  and  whirling  rain 
And  scattered  sunlight  are  the  neural  stuff 
Of  Infinite  Reverie,  and  we  ourselves. 
That  burrow  in  the  beehive  of  God's  brain. 
We  men,  —  are  but  imaginations,  thoughts 
That  crawl,  or  fly,  in  Nature's  mind;   and  some 
Are  true,  and  others  are  but  fancies. 


96  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SOMNUS 

So; 

What,  then,  is  he?  —  a  fancy? 

[Enter  Sandrac,   reading  a  book.    Being  dusk,  he  holds  the 
print  close  to  his  eyes.] 

FELIX 
[Clutching  Somnus^  robe  and  turning  away.] 

God  have  pity! 
[Eoceunt.] 

SANDRAC 
[Looking  up  from  his  book,  listens  to  Alberto.] 
This  boy's  a  master;  he  has  ecstasy. 
[Alberto,   at  Sandrac's  approach,  in  the  midst  of  a  note  of 
infinite  longing,  throws  away  his  violin,  flings  himself  on  the 
ground,  and  sobs  hysterically.] 

ALBERTO 

O, 

Take  her  away!    Take  her  away! 

[Pierre  stops  painting,  looks  over  his  shoulder  at  Alberto,  but 
seeing  Sandrac  approach  him,  resumes  his  work.  Sandrac 
stands  over  Alberto.] 

SANDRAC 

Here,  here, 
Boy,  do  not  cry. 

ALBERTO 

[Sobbing  to  himself.] 

Ah,  dio,  dio,  diol 


THE  REVERIE  97 

SANDRAC 
Come,  would  you  make  this  violet  bed  your  bier? 

ALBERTO 

I  hate  her! 

[Taking  up  the  violin.] 

■—  Boy! 

ALBERTO 

[Leaps  to  his  feet,  and  snatching  his  violin  from  Sandrac's 

hands,  holds  it  tight  to  his  breast.] 

Let  go!    What  man  are  you? 

SANDRAC 
One  who  may  teach  you  something. 

ALBERTO 
[Imperiously.] 

Leave  me;  leave. 

SANDRAC 
Not  till  I  tell  you  why  your  love's  untrue. 


ALBERTO 
She's  not;  she's  not! 


[Kisses  his  violin.] 

SANDRAC 

Then,  why,  pray,  do  you  grieve? 


ALBERTO 

You're  not  my  priest;  farewell! 

[Turns  away.] 


98  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SANDRAC 

Stay,  lad;  I  like 
Your  manners,  and  I  know  your  mind.    You're  sad 
Because  your  violin  here  will  not  strike 
A  chord  as  sweet  as  your  soul  does.    You're  mad 
To  dream  it  can. 

ALBERTO 
I  am  not  mad;  you  liel 

SANDRAC 
[Harshly.] 
Then  fiddle  on,  and  fail  until  you  die. 

[Alberto,  with  heaving  breast,  lifts  his  violin  to  his  chin,  and 

commences  playing,  at  first  with  moving  inspiration,  but 

then  with  sudden  fall  into  a  cheerless  commonplace.  He 
stops,  utterly  disheartened.] 

ALBERTO 
She's  false;  but  oh,  I  loved  her  I    Listen,  sir; 
This  thing  that  you  call  "  it  "  —  this  wood  —  I  named 
Bella,  and  as  a  sweetheart,  worshipped  her 
Near  half  my  life. 

SANDRAC 
Still  dreaming  to  be  famed 
Through  her,  still  failing.     Yes,  I  know.    I  too 
Am  but  a  convalescent  fool  even  now. 

ALBERTO 
Famed?     No,  I  didn't  think  of  that  — To  imbue 
Her  heart  with  my  own  joy,  that  was  my  vow; 
And  now,  'tis  broken.    Ah,  /am  the  traitor  I 


THE  REVERIE  99 

SANDRAC 
No,  my  young  friend,  you're  puzzled;  half  right,  but 
Half  wrong.    You  thought,  forsooth,  since  you  could  mate  a 
Live  spirit  of  Art  to  this  dry,  mummied  gut. 
Their  offspring  would  be  Joy;  whereas,  'tis  Yearning. 
But  I  will  cure  you  with  a  little  learning. 

ALBERTO 

[Throws  himself  on  a  bank,  plucking  up  violets  and  anemones, 

which  he  strews  about,^ 

I  wish  I  were  well  shovelled  in  the  earth 
That  wild  flowers  then  might  spring  from  me  I 

SANDRAC 

That  would 
Be  planting  woe  for  others  to  pluck  mirth. 
Nay,  boy,  there's  no  good  in  another's  good. 
Unless  it  be  invested  for  our  own. 

ALBERTO 

Then  give  me  no  more  of  your  good  advice. 
\Tums  away,  still  lying  on  the  bank.'] 

SANDRAC 
Well  answered,  by  Minerva!  with  a  tone 
That's  imambiguous.    Your  heart  is  thrice 
More  keen-eyed  than  your  brain.    Therefore  I  will 
Advise  you  something  further  for  your  profit:  — 
[Points  to  Hikrion's  cottage.'] 

There  dwells  an  heiress.    By  your  master  skill 
In  art,  you'd  win  her  fortune.    Come!  think  of  it, 
And  let  this  cast-off  love 

[Indicating  the  violin.] 


lOO  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

go  catch  a  new. 


Sylvia's  her  name. 


PIERRE 
[Turning  about] 
That  might  be  hard  to  do. 

SANDRAC 
[To  Pierre,] 
Ah,  friend,  how's  that? 

PIERRE 

Perchance  he  comes  too  late. 

SANDRAC 

So,  so?  —  Ah,  that's  because  you  seek  her  hand, 
Perhaps? 

PIERRE 
Why,  now  you've  hit  it. 

SANDRAC 

Here's  a  state 

Of  woe  for  all  the  rest  o'  the  worid.  —  Good  I  and 

Who,  friend,  may  you  be? 

PIERRE 
[Still  painting.] 

Pierre,  the  Painter. 

SANDRAC 

He 

Who  has  not  heard  of  Raphael,  be  chid; 
But  he  who  knows  not  Pierre,  the  Painter,  be 
Damned  ignoramus.  —  What,  sir!  have  you  hid 
Your  fame  in  this  far  forest? 


THE  REVERIE  lOi 

PIERRE 

A  short  space 
Till  I  shall  take  this  Sylvia  home. 

SANDRAC 

To  Paris? 

PIERRE 

Of  course;  where  else?    That  is  the  only  place. 

SANDRAC 
[Signifying  with  a  gesture  his  desire  to  look  at  the  painting.] 
May  I  —  ? 

PIERRE 
[Stopping  his  work  and  showing  the  picture  with  condescension.] 

Yes,  yes,  look;  to  all  Dicks  and  Harrys 
I  do  not  show  my  works;  but  you  appear 
To  have  some  eye  and  temperament;  look  here! 

[Pierre  holds  up  the  painting.     Sandrac  looks  at  it  long.] 

SANDRAC 
striking! 

PIERRE 

N^est  ce  pas?    What  think  you  of  me? 

SANDRAC 

Eh? 
I  think  that  if  some  kind  friend  tweaked  your  nose 
You'd  deem  he  stroked  you  on  the  cheek,  to  say 
You  are  the  first  of  fellows.    But  God  knows, 
There's  been  enough  of  this.     If  I  may  advise, 
To-morrow  Sylvia  here  will  hold  a  test 
Of  all  her  suitors,  she  herself  the  prize 
Of  him  who  her  three  questions  answers  best  — 


102  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Best  meaning  rightly.     Sirs,  to  lovers,  hints 
Are  good  as  hatchets  to  build  houses.     So 
Good  night! 

PIERRE 
[Who  has  gathered  up  his  things  in  hot  fury.] 

Which  path  go  you,  pray,  Monsieur  Squints! 

SANDRAC 
This  way. 

PIERRE 
[Taking  the  opposite  direction,] 
Then  I  go  this. 

[Exit,  fuming.] 

SANDRAC 
[Calls  after  him.] 

To  Sylvia,  ho! 
[He  laughs  a  hard,  keen  laugh.     Alberto,  who  has  laid  his  violin 
on  Sylvia's  door-sill,  is  just  leaving  it  in  despair.     Sandrac 
detains  him.] 

Stay!  —  Where  now,  boy? 

ALBERTO 
[Tearing  himself  away.] 

I'll  come  alone  to-morrow. 

[Exit.] 

SANDRAC 
Meantime  to-night  my  joy  shall  be  their  sorrow. 
But  now  to  find  my  lady's  handmaids. 

iHe  goes  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  peering  off,  and  slowly  exit.] 


THE  REVERIE  103 

[Enter  Felix  and  Somnus.] 

FELIX 
The  dusk  grows  darker  now  and  darkness  brighter, 
For  slowly  now  the  soft,  round  moon  grows  keen. 

SOMNUS 
The  appointed  time  is  almost  here. 

FELIX 

O  Night, 
Thou  Afric  skull  for  Attic  contemplation, 
How  many  worlds  the  teeming  mind  of  man 
Has,  like  a  sun,  given  off  to  sate  your  chaos, 
And  never  regathered  with  centripetal  hand! 
Where  shall  he  track  their  orbits  yon,  their  systems,  — • 
He  that  would  weave  a  garland  of  the  stars 
And  wear  it  lightly  like  a  shepherd's  crown? 
Thicker  than  sparks  that  glut  the  smithy's  chimney 
Thou  hast  devoured  them.     I  wonder,  Night, 
Are  those  eternal  torches  there  aloft 
Borne  by  the  pallid  hands  of  mortal  thinkers 
Searching  the  vaults  of  heaven  for  their  lost  dreams? 
If  so,  no  marvel  that  their  name  is  legion. 

SOMNUS 
Is  not  this  place  your  rendezvous? 

FELIX 

What  then? 

Now  is  the  autumn  season  of  the  day 


104  ^   GARLAND   TO  SYLVIA 

The  sunset  hour  of  sere  musings.    Let 
Me  dream. 

SOMNUS 
And  set  your  dreams  in  action  —  when? 

[Exeunt.] 

[After  a  brief  pause,  enter,  left,  Fervian  and  FlurrieU     From 
the  right,  reenters  Sandrac] 

SANDRAC 

Met 
At  last  I    You're  late  come.    Is  not  this  the  hour 
When  Sylvia  holds  her  fairy  court? 

FERVIAN 

Not  yet, 
For  yet  but  three  lamps  hang  in  Twilight's  tower, 
And  we  must  wait  until  Night  signals  nine, 
One  for  each  handmaid  of  the  perfect  moon 
That  reigns  in  heaven  for  Sylvia. 

SANDRAC 

When  those  shine  — 
What  then? 

FERVIAN 

When  breaks  the  ninth  star,  thou  shalt  soon 
Behold  the  rest.     Meantime,  and  during  all 
Of  awe  thou  mayst  behold,  secrete  thee  near 
Behind  this  holly-bush,  through  whose  scant  wall, 
Thou  mayst  discover  all  unseen. 

SANDRAC 

And  hear 
The  song  of  Sylvia? 


THE  REVERIE  105 

PERVIAN 
Yes. 


SANDRAC 

The  enchanted  key 
Of  music  that  unlocks  her  destmyl 
Here  on  this  parchment  I  will  write  it  down 
To-night;  then,  at  to-morrow's  trial,  read 
It  forth  to  Sylvia  and  claim  her  crown. 

FLURRIEL 
[To  Fervian,'] 

A  tyrant's  hateful  deed, 


What  have  we  done? 


Not  ours! 

\To  Sandrac.l 

Stay,  sir;  it  will  be  futile  there 
On  parchment  to  inscribe  her  song,  unless 
You  know  its  inmost  meaning.    Therefore,  pray, 
Inscribe  it  not. 

SANDRAC 

And  so  fail  of  my  guess 
To-morrow?  —  Fools,  had  I  no  other  way 
To  riddle  out  your  mistress'  heart,  think  ye 
I'd  walk  so  proud  a  pace,  and  ye  so  quailing? 
This  method  is  succinct  and  pleases  me  — 
To  net  her  with  her  song.    But  as  for  failing 
In  the  end,  why,  gawks  I  my  power  has  myriad  ways: 
Fetch  me  yon  glow-worm. 

[Flurriel,  stooping,  picks  up  a  faint  phosphorescent  light  and 
gives  it  to  Sandrac] 


io6  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FLURRIEL 
Here. 
[Sandrac  holds  it  on  his  palm,  and  blows  it;  immediately  it  leaps 
into  a  white,  electric  flame,  which  glorifies  the  wood  with  an 
intense  brilliance,  revealing  in  the  distance  the  approaching 
figures  of  Felix  and  Somnus;  then  relapsing  to  its  former 
dimness  in  the  moonlight.  Fervian  and  Flurriel  recoil  and 
hide  their  faces  in  fear, 1 

SANDRAC 

So  can  I  blaze 
The  palest  spark  of  beauty  for  my  ends, 
Till  it  shall  fathom  time  with  fulguration 
And  weave  a  nimbus  for  the  world.  —  Night  wends; 
Enough;  begone! 

FERVIAN 

But,  master  — 

SANDRAC 

Know  your  station. 
Begonel 

FERVIAN 
We  must. 

\Theypass  into  the  house^l 

SANDRAC 
Yonder's  the  sixth  star.    I'll 
Couch  me  and  wait. 

\He  retires  behind  the  holly-bush,  where  he  is  dimly  seen,  poring 
over  a  book  by  the  light  of  the  glow-worm,  which  fiames 
duskily  in  the  hollow  of  a  stump.  Reenter  Felix  and 
Somnus.] 


THE  REVERIE  107 

FELIX 
Inexorable  jailer!    Show  her  mercy! 
Open  some  door  of  liberation. 

SOMNUS 

Only 

He  sets  her  free,  whose  strong,  expanded  spirit 

Can  wrench  my  bars  and  win  her. 

FELIX  ; 

Pitiless, 
Relentless  ghost!  You  know  I  cannot  do  it, 
And  so  you  plague  me. 

SOMNUS 
Nay,  I  know  it  not. 

FELIX 

Come,  then;  you  know  we  found  a  subterfuge 
Before  to  speak  with  her. 

SOMNUS 
WeU? 

FELIX 

If  I  find 
Another,  will  you  guide  me?  —  Answer! 

SOMNUS 

Yes; 
If  in  this  wall  of  mortised  words  and  will 
Which  you  have  builded,  I  can  prod  some  flaw, 
Or  secret  breach,  to  slip  you  through  to  her, 
I'll  do  so. 


io8  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 
I  can  show  you  one.    For  I 
Remember,  in  this  very  act  and  scene 
Where  now  we  tread,  I  left  a  void  of  thought, 
Thinking  to  fill  it  up,  in  the  manuscript, 
When  I  should  grow  more  wise.     It  is  the  place 
Where  Sylvia's  handmaids,  having  gone  their  ways 
On  mortal  errands,  leave  her  quite  alone. 
Dreading  the  approach  of  Sandrac.    There  the  scene 
Is  left  unsolved  —  chaotic.     Through  that  gap, 
Then,  let  me  pass  to  speak  with  her. 

SOMNUS 

So  be  it. 

Yet  do  not  think  that  such  a  subterfuge 

Shall  set  her  free.     What  has  been  willed  is  willed 

Until  it  be  revok'd.     Thou  shalt  be  duped. 

And  her  once  more  your  creatures  shall  enthrall. 

FELIX 

Yet  she  shall  hear  -—  shall  speak  to  me  once  more? 
SOMNUS 

She  shall. 

FELIX 

God  help  me,  then:  I'm  willing. 

SOMNUS 

Look! 

SANDRAC 
[Starting  up.] 
The  ninth  star  shines. 


THE  REVERIE  109 

[The  cottage  of  Sylvia  changes  to  an  ample  palace,  of  which  the 
trees  form  pillars,  supporting  a  roof  of  glowing  vaults, 
which  increase  in  radiance  and  thicker -thronging  stars  as 
the  scene  advances.  Sylvia,  as  a  spirit,  is  discovered 
seated  upon  a  single  throne,  surrounded  by  her  nine  hand- 
maidens, each  of  whom  is  leader  of  a  throng  of  lesser  spirits; 
these,  as  the  scene  opens,  are  grouped  about  the  throne, 
singing.  While  they  sing,  Sandrac,  crouching  again  by  the 
stump,  listens  and  writes  on  his  parchment.] 

THE  SPIRITS 

Who  is  Sylvia?     What  is  she 
That  all  her  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair  and  wise  is  she; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her 
That  admired  she  might  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair. 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 

To  her  eyes  love  doth  repair 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness. 
And  being  helped  inhabits  there. 

SYLVIA 
[Standing,  bids  them,  by  a  gesture,  cease  their  song.] 

Spirits  of  Fancy,  Pan's  immortal  Elves, 

I  thank  you.     Yet,  since  praises  are  but  pride 

Unless  they  sing  deeds  sweeter  than  themselves, 

We  will  to  our  to-night's  affairs,  nor  bide 

One  instant  of  obsequious  court.     Come,  then  I 

And  from  our  hands  take  missions  unto  men. 


no  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

[They  come  to  her.  She  whispers.  They  depart.  Sandrac, 
who  has  been  alert,  watching  all,  now  —  dropping  his 
parchment  —  sinks  into  a  stupor.] 

FELIX 
Quick,  Somnus!    'Tis  the  instant.    All  is  still. 
This  is  the  gap  I  left  in  the  scene.     Release  me! 

SOMNUS 
Does  Sandrac  speak  no  more? 

FELIX 

I  think,  no  more: 
No  more  that  I  remember.  —  Lead  me  to  her! 
See,  she  awakes. 

SOMNUS 

Wait  here. 

SYLVIA 
{Reaching  her  arms  upward  in  joy^ 

Ah,  free  again! 
SOMNUS 
{Approaching  Sylvia.] 
Immortal  Maid,  and  Empress  of  Delight, 
Out  of  the  mist-keep  of  mortality    • 
I  come  to  beg  my  sovereign  a  boon. 

SYLVIA 

Speak,  Somnus:  what  dark  tale  of  mortal  madness, 
Or  sad  irresolution,  do  you  bring 
From  out  your  dungeon? 


THE  REVERIE  iii 

SOMNUS 

I  bring  no  story, 
But  one  who  brings  a  story. 

SYLVIA 

What,  a  mortal? 

Lives  there  indeed  on  earth  a  modern  Samson, 

That  can  disjoint  the  impalpable  pillars  of 

His  prison  house,  and  through  his  blindness'  wreck 

See  heaven? 

SOMNUS 

If  such  there  be,  I  bring  him  not. 
This  one  has  sought  a  subterfuge.    His  name 
Is  Felix. 

SYLVIA 

O,  where  is  he? 
[Somnus  beckons,  Felix  springs  passionately  from  his  covert.] 

FELIX 

Here,  love! 
{Somnus  withdraws  and  stands  over  Sandrac.] 

SYLVIA 

Welcome! 

FELIX 

Am  I,  then,  welcome  still,  though  still  my  love 

Is  impotent? 

SYLVIA 

Can  love  be  impotent? 
Why,  I  should  be  a  futile,  heart-broke  thing 
Without  your  warm,  live,  human  heart  to  love  me. 


112  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 
[Embracing  her,] 

Though  it  be  weak,  it  beats  an  enduring  song 
Like  a  goldsmith  in  bright  silver.    Can  you  hear  it? 

SYLVIA 
How  true  it  rings! 

FELEX 

That  is  because  it  hammers 
Your  name,  love.    Listen :  Sylvia  —  Sylvia  —  Sylvia  — 
Tis  forging  an  inner  shrine  to  worship  you. 

SYLVIA 
My  subtle  poet! 

FELIX 

No,  your  steadfast  lover. 
Too  oft  from  you  my  probing  mind  is  errant  — 
Never  my  heart!    That's  poised,  a  centred  pole, 
Round  which  my  vague-eyed,  sheering  fancies  whirl 
Like  Cassiopeia  and  the  Pleiades 
Around  the  north.     O  Sylvia,  bear  with  me 
Though  still  the  poet  speaks!    For  I  have  come 
To  beg  this  night  our  boon  of  union:  not 
Such  meeting  as  of  mortal  earth  with  earth. 
But  blending  of  that  earth  with  mystery, 
As  when,  in  March,  from  out  the  starved  sod,  springs 
Beauty! 

SYLVIA 

Why  do  you  ask  this?    Do  you  crave 
Me,  or  my  crown?    Ah,  dear,  forgive  the  doubt! 


THE  REVERIE  113 

I  would  make  sure.  —  Alas!  there  has  been  need 

Ere  now. 

FELIX 

There  has  been  need,  but  now  no  more, 

I  swear! 

SYLVIA 

Consider:  he  who  wins  my  crown 
Shall  earn  an  immortality  of  praise, 
Become  an  epithet  in  the  ear  of  time. 
And  stun  the  coming  ages  with  his  name. 
Are  none  of  these  your  motives? 

FELIX 

None,  I  swear! 

SYLVIA. 
By  what  sufficient  goddess  do  you  swear? 

FELIX 
[Looking  upward.] 

There!    In  that  open  locket  of  white  pearl 

Which  Cynthia  wears,  a  night-charm,  on  her  breast  — 

There  shines  the  virgin-mistress  of  my  vows, 

Whose  image  of  ideality  men  name 

The  Lady  in  the  Moon.    Look,  Sylvia! 

The  lineaments  of  that  shadow  luminous 

Are  yours.    Long  ere  the  first,  sad  dreamer  kneeled, 

Her  smile  bent  o'er  the  clouds  of  earth,  benign  — 

A  blessing  and  a  lure  to  aspiration. 

Hers  is  that  brow  which  he  of  Melos  Isle 

Wrought  in  long-buried  marble;  gazing  on  her, 

Young  Raphael  learned  to  mure  adoring  ardor 


114  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

In  The  Transfiguration.    Hers  and  yours 

And  Beauty's  are  one  profile.  —  Therefore,  there 

By  your  perennial  portrait  in  the  heaven, 

Your  deathless  image  in  Night's  darkling  eye  — 

By  her  —  the  Lady  in  the  Moon  —  I  swear. 

[Smiling  wistfully^  Sylvia  holds  out  her  arms  toward  Felix. 
Simultaneously  Sandrac  {at  a  touch  from  Somnus), 
starting  from  his  stupor,  leaps  to  his  feet.] 

SANDRAC 
Am  I,  then,  dreaming?    What  I    She  calls  me.    Ahl 
She  welcomes  me  to  her  arms  now  — 

FELIX 
[Starting  forward  cries  aloud  simultaneously  with  Sandrac.] 

Sylvia  I  | 
Sylvia!) 

[The  palace  and  Sylvia  disappear  in  instant  darkness.    Crop- 
ing,  the  three  figures  draw  together.] 

SOMNUS 
[To  Felix.] 
You  had  forgot;  but  I  remembered. 

FELIX 
[Bitterly J  at  Sandrac' s  ear.] 

Fool! 

[curtain.] 


ACT  III 


ACT  III 

Scene:    Exterior  of  Sylvia* s  cottage;  the  same  scene  as  the 

opening  of  Act  II,  Scene  IL     Noon. 
Near  the  fountain,   Eikrion  is  seated;  on   one  of  his  great 

knees,  the  slender  figure  of  Alberto  is  perched,  scanning  his 

shrewd  face, 

HIKRION 
[Chanting  deeply.'] 
In  the  bottom,  in  the  bottom,  of  a  pond  a  nix  was  wed  I 

ALBERTO 

Where,  did  you  say? 

HIKRION 

Ah,  who  was  her  bridegroom  there? 
A  drowned  man,  a  drowned  mant 

ALBERTO 

Not  deadi 

HIKRION 
[Sepulchrally.'] 
Who  gave  her  away?  gave  her  away? 


ALBERTO 

So,  dadi 


Don't  stare 


HIKRION 
[Smiling  merrily.] 

A  pretty  pout;  her  eyes  were  blue 
And  'r  fins  were  frill'd. 

117 


Il8  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

[Darkly.] 

But  tell!  who  was  best  mani 
The  silvery,  slippery  water-snake :  he  knew 
The  service. 

ALBERTO 

[struggling  to  get  off  Hikrion*s  knee,  is  held  tight  by  him.] 
Let  me  go  I 

HIKRION 

Nay,  tell  if  ye  can  I 
Who  was  the  choir!  —  I  know!    The  mud-frogs;  they 
Were  choir,  were  choir  — 

IStentorianly.] 

for  the  drowned,  drowned  man. 

ALBERTO 

Quick!    Let  me  go. 

HIKRION 

What,  are  ye  uneasy,  eh? 
How  old  are  ye,  lad! 

ALBERTO 

I  am  past  seventeen; 
I'm  not  a  youngster  to  be  knee-danced. 

HIKRION 
[Pushing  him  off  and  rising.] 

Nay, 
Then,  off  with  ye,  fair  gentleman;  ye're  clean 
Too  growed  up  for  a  lad  like  me. 

ALBERTO 

[Returning  to  Hikrion  and  hugging  him.] 

No,  no. 
I  love  to  listen.  —  Please! 


THE  REVERIE  119 

HIKRION 
\Tuming  away  roughly. 1 

Nay,  get  along. 
Ye're  like  the  rest  o'  them  that  come  to  woo 
My  daughter:  so  ingenious  ye  go  wrong 
When  a  simple  hand  would  wind  ye. 

ALBERTO 

[Burying  his  face  in  his  arms  against  a  tree.] 

Fooll    Fooll    I'll 
Go  drown  and  wed  the  niz. 

HIKRION 
[Returning  with  a  kind  smile.] 

Phol  boy,  a  song 
WiU  cheer  ye.    I  was  joking. 

ALBERTO 
[Looking  up.] 

Honest? 

HIKRION 

[Puts  his  arm  over  Alberto's  shoulder.] 

Smile, 
That's  it.    Come  here  and  sun  ye! 

[They  sit  on  the  stile  together.] 

Now  we'll  be 
Such  like  0'  lovers  as  two  greenish  collies 
That  wag  their  tails  at  each  other,  when  they  see 
One  t'other's  ears  perk  up.    Age  puts  off 's  follies 
O'  puppyhood,  folks  say;  yet  the  old  dog  romps 


I20  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Wi'  the  young  un  in  the  sunshine.    Be  as  jolly  as 
Nature,  says  II 

ALBERTO 

Yes,  Papa  Hikrion,  dumps 
Are  devils  I 

HIKRION 
Play  this  pipe,  then  —  it  will  ease 
Ye.    Do  ye  mind  the  old  song  "  Huswif's  Joy  "  ? 

ALBERTO 

I  know  it. 

HIKRION 
Pipe,  tiien. 

[Alberto  pipes  and  Hikrion  sings  to  his  piping.] 

Three  gray  housewives  plied  their  stitches 
For  to  make  a  goodman  a  pair  of  breeches 
And  the  jerkin  of  'eml 
And  the  jerkin  of  'em I 
But  when  he  put  'em  on, 
The  goodman  he  was  gone. 

Such  was  the  workin'  of  'em. 
Lack-a-dayl 

Cried  the  three, 
Which  is  they? 
Which  is  he? 
Which  is  the  goodman?    Which  is? 

[Enter  Sob  and  Babblebrook  in  the  background.  They  have 
exchanged  their  outer  garments,  Sob  assuming  a  plump 
swagger  in  his  courtier's  dress  ;  Babblebrook  in  the  curate's 
gown,  gravely  reading  a  book  of  Psalms.'] 


THE  REVERIE  I2I 

ALBERTO 

Look  I    Why,  what  are  these 
That  come  this  way? 

SOB 
\At  the  top  of  his  voiceJl 

Woodman,  woodman,  ahoyi 

HIKRION 

These  are  a  kind  o'  fowl  called  golden  geese 

That  quawk  in  the  wood  o'  mornings.     Ay,  but  what! 

They've  moulted  and  changed  feathers. 

SOB 

Woodman! 

BABBLEBROOK 
[Glancing  up  from  his  book,] 

Peace, 
Brother,  you  mar  devotion. 

SOB 

What  of  that? 

Odds  clapper  bones  and  skulls!    That  peasant  rogue 

Shall  answer  me. 

[To  Hikrion.] 

You,  fellow;  look  to  your  hat; 
We're  gentry. 

HIKRION 

Be  ye? 

SOB 
Yea,  and  I'm  in  vogue 
Now,  rascal.     I  will  bear  no  more  of  your  water- 
Pails:  nor  your  wood  packs;  nay,  nor  heed  your  brogue 
Neither.     I'll  soon  relieve  you  of  your  daughter  — 
Your  foster-child.  —  She  kissed  me  yesterday. 
In  short,  I  am  approved.    Hut  —  tut! 


122  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

HIKRION 

I'd  ought  ter 

Be  proud  o*  such  a  son-in-law,  and  say, 

I  really  are.    There  wa'n't  another  like 

Him  in  the  ark,  that's  certing. 

SOB 
[Tugging  at  his  sword.] 

Sirrah  I  —  Nay, 
Thou  art  the  epitome  of  naught.     To  strike 
Thee,  were  to  eliminate  a  cipher.    Loon, 
Tell  me,  what  hour  will  Sylvia,  belike, 
Make  trial  of  her  suitors? 

HIKRION 

Here  at  noon. 

SOB 
[Taking  out  his  purse.] 
Draw  near,  Chawbacon:  this  is  for  your  pains. 
[Hands  a  coin.] 

HIKRION 
[Takes  it.] 

A  ha'penny  I    Lor!    Sir,  you  rob  your  purse! 
Yet  sith  you  are  so  princely,  for  this  gains 

[Holding  up  the  coin.] 
I'll  swap  ye  a  pig. 

SOB 
Apigl 

HIKRION 

Come;  that  aren't  worse 
For  you;  a  pig  for  ha'penny. 


THE  REVERIE  123 


SOB 
Fooll 

HIKRION 

Got 
One  here  I'll  sell  ye  cheap,  eh,  laddie? 
[Whispers  to  Alberto.'] 

SOB 

Curse 
These  dolts! 

HIKRION 

[Jumping  down  from  the  stile,  mounts  Alberto  on  his  back  and 
shoulders.] 

Up,  boy  I  pig-back.     He  must  be  bought, 
My  masters. 
[Runs  after  Sob  and  Babblebrook,  who  begin  to  retire,  scared.] 

BABBLEBROOK 
[Closing  his  book.] 
Gracious  I 

SOB 
Stand  offi 

HIKRION 

Buy  a  pig? 
ALBERTO 

Gee,  Dobbin! 

SOB 
Base  clown  —  knave  —  what  means  this? 

HIKRION 

Naught; 
The  epitome  of  naught:  a  nursery  jig 
For  babes.    Buy  a  pig?    Buy  a  pig?    Buy  a  pig? 


124  ^   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

ALBERTO 

Hah-geel 
Gee  up!  —  Whoa,  Dobbin! 

\Hikrion,  carrying  Alberto  on  his  shoulders,  pursues  Sob  and 
Babblebrook  between  the  trees,  and  charges  them  off  the 
scene.  Exeunt  omnes.  Enter  FeliXj  laughing  bitterly; 
with  him  Somnus.] 

FELIX 
This  discourse  is  the  odorous  extract  of  absurdity. 

SOMNUS 
Whose? 

FELIX 
Why,  ours.     What  does  it  come  to  but  star-gazing 
and  ditch-stumbling.     But  look  at  this  fellow  Sandrac; 
he's  no  god-gossip.     He  walks  off  in  my  shoes,  whistling, 
while  barefoot  I  stand  mooning. 

SOMNUS 
Ay,  so  he  does. 

FELIX 
"Ay,  so  he  does!"  Old  dotard!  Yours  is  the 
fault  of  this.  You  follow  me  always  with  your  sad 
assentings,  your  so-so^s,  and  your  too-true^s,  or  else 
your  crooked  question-marks  that  set  me  off  in  laby- 
rinthian  descants.  What  are  you,  anyway?  And 
why  do  you  dog  and  nag  me,  as  if  I  were  poor  Tom, 
the  cat,  that  slinks  in  the  dark? 

SOMNUS 
You  know  that  I  am  Somnus,  the  keeper  of  this 
wood. 


THE  REVERIE  125 

FELIX 
Why,  yes  —  my  valet-confidant  in  this  drama  that's 
acting.    By  God!    I  would  you'd  let  me  act. 

SOMNUS 
Do  I  prevent  you? 

FELIX 
Do  you  not?    You  keep  me  for  a  soliloquizing  mag- 
pie. 

SOMNUS 

I  keep  you  no  longer  than  you  will. 

FELIX 
But  I  am  weary  of  muttering  these  asides  to  you; 
of  playing  a  most  despicable,  croaking  chorus  of  one. 
For  look!  If  this  were  indeed  a  theatre,  whose  boards 
I  tread,  —  as  God  knows  what  it  is  that's  going  on 
here,  —  why,  what  a  ludicrous  guy  would  I  be  for  a 
good-natured  spectator!  Am  I  the  villain?  Bah! 
My  blood's  too  chalk-and- water.  Am  I  the  hero? 
Do  I  look  it?  A  cuss  that  skulks  and  miawls  about 
the  side  scenes!  —  Ha!  What  am  I  written  down  as, 
in  the  Dramatis  Personae?  —  Nothing.  And  what, 
then,  am  I?  Why,  I'm  the  author:  an  interruptive, 
prative,  stuttering  coxcomb,  that  puts  a  make-up  on, 
and  issues  from  the  wings  to  straddle  the  footlights, 
neither  in  nor  out  of  the  audience:  a  walking  margin, 
a  superfluous  compendium,  an  insufferable  cicerone, 
that  stands  like  a  biograph  lecturer,  with  a  long  pole, 
and  cries  you:  ''Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  mark  this 
moving  figure;    this  is  Babblebrook,  this  is  Sandrac. 


126  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

I  pray  you  pardon  me;  I  cannot  show  you  that  picture 
again,  for  the  fellow  who  works  the  machine  is  out  of 
hearing."  Ahaha!  If  this  indeed  were  a  drama,  I 
say,  there's  a  hero  for  you! 

SOMNUS 
It  seems  you  have  left  me  out. 

FELIX 
Oh  no;  you  are  the  prompter,  popped  out  of  his 
box,  in  a  wig  and  long-cloak.  You  kill  two  birds: 
first,  you're  the  latest  novelty  in  Hamlet's  ghost, 
which,  secondly,  gives  you  the  invisible  prerogative 
of  whispering  the  players  their  lines.  Oh!  we're  a 
pair  of  us;  we  should  win  an  encore  from  the  gods. 

SOMNUS 
Why,  as  you  say,  if  this  same  wood  were  only  a 
patch  of  canvas,  and  we  things  up  for  show;  if  we, 
who  act  our  parts  in  life,  were  indeed  the  made-up 
semblances  we  seem  to  be;  if  the  world  itself  were 
but  a  stage,  and  the  stage  itself  were  all  mere  mockery, 
—  yes,  then,  we  should  appear  such  as  you  say.  But 
all  this  is  not  so.     It  seems  so  to  your  laughter. 

FELIX 

And  is  not  laughter  the  subtlest  of  our  critics? 

SOMNUS 
Perhaps.    All  laughter  comes  from  seeing  things 
awry.     Who  know  this,  they  laugh  well;    who  know 


THE  REVERIE  127 

it  not,  and  deem  they  laugh  at  truth  itself  —  they 
laugh  in  hell. 

FELIX 

Ah,  Somnus!   you  who  can  teach  so  thorough  the 

theory  of  human  harmony,  why  cannot  you  set  my 

flatted  mind  in  tune? 

SOMNUS 

Why,  if  you  catch  my  argument,  apply  it. 

FELIX 

Apply  it?    No,  no,  I  must  laugh,  to  scratch  the 
itching  pox  of  grief  within  me. 

SOMNUS 
Of  hate,  you  mean. 

FELIX 
Well,  hate!  What  else?  I  hate  him.  Should  I 
not?  After  sick  climbing,  when  I  was  touching  heaven, 
Sylvia  smiHng  on  me,  then  with  a  word,  a  breath,  he 
wraps  me  in  a  cloud,  and  by  the  heels  drags  me  down, 
down,  to  the  devil  again.  Yes,  by  God^s  light,  I  hate 
him!  —  deathly,  I  hate  him. 

SOMNUS 
Will  you  hate  your  own  offspring? 

FELIX 

What!    Did  he  not  dissipate  hope,  joy,  faith,  all, 

even  in  my  very  arms?  and  has  left  me  now  —  even 

as  you  see  me  here  —  a  hollow  fool  of  satire?    And 

why  not?  when  Ideality  is  such  a  god  that,  like  an 


128  A   GARLAND   TO  SYLVIA 

urchin's  snowman,  it  melts  even  in  the  embraces  of  its 

worshipper. 

IdeaKty!    I'd  rather  carry  hods 
For  hire,  than  be  a  fellow  of  the  gods. 
Ah!    But   this   shall   not   last.  —  Come,    Somnus. 

We  will  shake  this  off. 

SOMNUS 
You  must  do  that. 

[Exeunt  both.] 

[Enter,  from  the  cottage,  Sylvia,  dressed  in  a  white  sunbonnet 
and  the  costume  of  a  peasant  girl  She  brings  an  old- 
fashioned  chum  and  sets  it  down  near  the  door,] 

SYLVIA 

In  this  milk-maid's  rig, 
I  might  escape  the  De'il  himself,  if  he 
Came  wooing  princesses.     So  farewell  terror 
Of  Sandrac,  and  his  dark  conspiracy 
To  win  my  hand  — ^What  say  you,  pretty  mirror? 

[Bending  over  the  fountain,] 
You  make  a  pretty  answer:  —  jeopardy 
To  Polly  Pinkcheeks'  lovers!  —  Sylvia!  bestir,  or 
Polly  will  steal  thy  suitors.  —  Polly,  Polly, 
Run  fetch  thy  churning  cream,  lest  thou  be  chid 
By  Lady  Sylvia.     Heigh!   sing  trolly-lolly 
Lo!    Heigh!  sing  trolly-lolly-lee! 

[Exit  into  the  cottage.     Enter  Sob  and  Babblebrook,] 

SOB 

She  did 

But  jest,  for  she's  a  runnel  of  bright  wit, 

That's  ever  plashing  over. 


TEE  REVERIE  129 

BABBLEBROOK 

Nay,  she's  hid 
In  a  sober  coif  of  sadness.     She'd  permit 
No  jest  to  pass  her  lips. 

SOB 

Tut!    She  is  ever 
Tripping  it  like  Terpsychore  in  a  fit, 
And  warbling  like  an  orange-girl. 

BABBLEBROOK 

Deliver 
Us,  heaven  I    Why,  man,  her  step  of  pensive  grace, 
That  marches  like  a  still  and  stately  river. 
Is  set  in  rhythm  to  a  psalm-tune's  pace  — 
An  anapest  of  motion. 

SOB 

"  Pease-porridge  hot! " 
A  pensive  hymn  indeed!    I  pray  you,  trace 
"  Pease-porridge  "  in  the  Psalmody. 

BABBLEBROOK 

God  wot 
'Tis  there,  if  Sylvia  sung  it. 

[Reenter  Sylvia  with  a  pail  of  cream,  which  she  pours  into  the 
chum ;  after  which  she  sits  down  and  begins  busily  to  ply 
the  wooden  vertical  handle,  humming  to  herself  and  glancing 
at  the  two  wooers,] 

SOB 

All  thou  hast  said 
Gives  proof  thou  hast  not  even  met  her. 


I30  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

BABBLEBROOK 

Pin 

Some  arbiter  to  such  a  proof. 

SOB 

This  maid  I 
[Peeping  under  Sylvia^s  bonnet.] 
Odds  saints  and  relics!    Girl,  chuck  up  thy  chin. 

SYLVIA 
Too  busy; 
Ask  the  missy; 
Says  she,  says  she. 
[Goes  on  churning  and  humming,] 

SOB 

Wench,  thou  wert  by,  a-yesterday,  when  I  made 
Advances  to  thy  mistress  —  Wench  I  wilt  stop 
A  minute?    Thou  canst  bear  me  witness  to 
Thy  mistress'  gay  behavior. 

SYLVIA 

Bear  not  false  witness 

For  master  or  mistress. 

Hey,  bonny  Johnny  I 

[Chums,] 

SOB 

Wench! 


SYLVIA 
My  name's  Polly.  — 
O  lassie,  be  jolly 
For  your  laddie's  twenty-four, 
And  if  he's  too  old,  there's  plenty  more. 


THE  REVERIE  131 

SOB 

Pray  drop 
Thy  stick  a  moment,  Polly. 

BABBLEBROOK 

Tell  us  true, 
Thou  foolish  girl,  has  not  thy  gentle  lady 
Sylvia  a  sober,  taciturn,  dull  hue 
Of  mind?    Does  she  not  chide  thee  as  unsteady 
For  singing  such  crude  snatches? 

SYLVIA 
Nay,  she's  fond  o'  butter 
As  a  milk-maid  ought  'er. 
[CAi/nw.] 

SOB 

But,  thou  sphinx, 
Sylvia's  no  milkmaid. 

SYLVIA 
O,  ay,  fond  gentlemen; 
To  prove:  — 

She  is  a  milk-white  maiden, 
My  love,  my  love. 

SOB 
[To  Babblebrook,] 

Well,  sir,  I  am  ready 
To  uphold  it  with  my  sword,  that  this  same  minx 
Was  standing  by  when  Sylvia  kissed  me;  yea. 
She  smiled  when  Sylvia  smiled;  I  know  the  pinks 
O'  her  cheeks,  there,  underneath  her  bonnet. 


132  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

BABBLEBROOK 
Then  she  will  tell  us  so.  —  Good  Polly  — 


Nay, 


SYLVIA 
Well,  kind  Sir, 
What  of  her? 

Chum,  chum, 

Youth  will  yearn. 
Johnny  said  he'd  love  me  ay; 
But  his  love  was  thin  as  whey, 
When  I  whipped  his  words  away. 

Chum,  chum, 

Live  and  learn. 

BABBLEBROOK 

Fie 
upon  these  females!    Take  'em  at  the  core. 
They're  all  alike  —  a  lovesick  galaxy. 
Sylvia's  the  only  sensible  exception 
In  the  sex. 

SOB 
Odds  crucifixes!    Let's  not  ply 
This  hussy  with  more  questions.     'Twere  direption 
Of  time.    We  shall  retum  at  noon.    Farewell! 

SYLVIA 

Fare  thee  well,  my  true  love. 
My  blue  love. 
[Still  chums,] 

BABBLEBROOK 
[Opening  his  book,] 
What  psalm  did  I  leave  off  at? 


TEE  REVERIE  133 

SOB 
[With  his  hands  over  his  ears,'] 
Damnl 
[Exeunt  Sob  and  Babblebrook,     Sylvia  leaps  up,  laughing,] 

SYLVIA 

Deception, 
Thy  name  is  —  Polly  1     Pretty  Polly,  well 
Done!     Thou  shalt  have  a  cracker  and  cookie 
If  thou  canst  play  the  parrot  with  such  skill 
To  Milord  Sandrac,  for  I've  been  told,  look'ee. 
That  he  has  such  an  eye  as  the  eagle  master 
Who  spies,  in  his  bench,  a  bad  boy  that's  played  hookie. 
[Suddenly  stands  on  tiptoe  and  peers.] 

Hist!    **  Still  pond,  no  fair  moving!  "    Poetaster, 
I  spy  you. 

[She  runs  again  to  the  chum,  plies  the  wooden  handle,  and  hums. 
Enter  Sandrac] 

Chum,  chum. 

Hearts  will  bum: 

Every  Tommy  takes  his  turn. 

SANDRAC 

What!  —  a  lass? 

SYLVIA 

Ye  may  cry  alas  I 
Indeed,  poor  bonny  lass! 

SANDRAC 
[To  himself.] 

She,  as  I  live! 
A  cap  to  hoodwink  me!    I'll  make  believe. 


134  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

[To  Sylvia.] 

So  bonny  face?    Why  alas? 
» 

SYLVIA 

'Tis  such  a  passi 
There's  no  lad  to  be  had. 

SANDRAC 

What  will  you  give 
For  a  lad  full  grown? 

SYLVIA 
I'll  give  him  tit  for  tat: 
A  Roland  for  an  Oliver. 

SANDRAC 
[stooping  over  quickly  and  trying  to  kiss  her,] 

Then  this  is 
Roland. 

[Sylvia,  striking  his  cheek,  escapes  with  a  laugh,] 

SYLVIA 

And  that's  his  brother,  Oliver! 
You  counterfeit!  —  Hearts  are  true  coin  for  kisses. 

SANDRAC 
[Bowing,] 
You've  said  it  prettily. 

SYLVIA 
[To  herself.] 
Dear  Jupiter! 
Teach  me  the  mother-tongue  of  milkmaids. 

[To  Sandrac] 

O,  sir! 
You're  most  prodigious  kind.    But  I  prefer 


THE  REVERIE  135 

To  hear  you.    You  talk  prettier  'n  our  green-grocer, 
And  he  was  bom  in  Banbury.     I  learned 
My  gentry-talk  from  him;  though  you'd  suppose  a 
Plain  wench  like  me,  perhaps,  had  sat  and  churned 
Her  wits  away.    But  you,  by  your  fine  gown, 
Sir,  I  suppose  you  are  a  scholar!  —  Earned 
Much  by  it?    Is  't  a  good  trade? 

SANDRAC 

OhI  in  town, 

It  is  accounted  good  for  threadbare  coats. 

Lean  looks,  and  penny  loaves,  and  'tis,  I'll  own, 

A  sterile  patch  for  fools  to  sow  wild  oats; 

Yet  for  a  scholar  with  an  artist's  eye 

Learning's  a  pleasant  trade.     For  with  the  same 

He  grinds  a  golden  meal  called  Poesie, 

Which  then  he  barters  out  for  fame,  and  fame 

Hoards  interest  in  praise;  and  so  we  ply 

A  pajring  trade. 

SYLVIA 

Do  you,  sir,  call  a  poet, 

One  who  lends  genius  out  for  fame. 

SANDRAC 

I  state 
Plain  business:  he  who  sows  a  field  may  mow  it; 
Who  buys  is  wise  to  sell  at  higher  rate. 

SYLVIA 
Your  bard's  a  broker  in  the  Muses*  mart; 
But  minCy  —  a  will,  whose  pregnant  powers  create 
Another  Eden  in  the  void  of  Art, 
Where  to  his  creatures  he's  responsible 
That  they  shall  side  on  God's,  not  Satan's  part. 


136  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SANDRAC 
What  lyric  eloquence! 

SYLVIA 
Me  miserable  I 
I  have  forgot  myself  again. 

[To  Sandrac] 

'Tis  time 
I  took  the  butter  in.     My  speech  —  I'll  tell 
You,  sir,  my  knack  of  speech;  I  learnt  it  all  — 
From  Sylvia:  know  her,  maybe?  —  She  is  —  well  — 
She,  sir,  's  my  mistress!  —  talks  like  that  —  things  tall 
In  sentiment;  —  and  so,  of  course,  we  learn  — 
We  maids  —  from  her. 

SANDRAC 
Ahl 

SYLVIA 
Sir? 
[Going  to  the  cottage  door.] 

Was  that  a  call? 
Sir,  Sylvia  wants  me  in  the  house.    My  chum! 
[She  hurries  in,  carrying  the  chum^ 

SANDRAC 

Allow  me,  pray,  to  help;  accept  of  my  — 

[Exit  Sylvia.] 
By  Venus!  never  did  my  pulse  so  bum 
For  starry  prizes  of  astrology. 
Nor  for  the  fool's  gold-stone,  whose  secret  glitters 
In  clay,  as  for  this  Sylvia.    But  I 


THE  REVERIE  137 

Must  drink,  one  endless  instant  more,  the  bitters 
Of  balked  desire. 

[A  pipe  plays  outside.] 
What's  there?    The  suitors? 

[lA>oks  at  the  sun-dial] 

Noon; 
Nay,  lacks  a  hair  yet.    Love  and  I  be  sitters 
I'  the  sun  till  then. 

[He  sits  on  the  edge  of  the  sun-dial  and  waits.     Outside  is  heard 
the  sound  of  a  pipe  and  voices,  singing.] 

THE  VOICES 
A  lad  he  longed  for  a  lass: 

Sing  wooing  and  warm  weather! 
When  flocks  roamed  drowsy  on  the  grass, 
And  kine  in  the  tinkly  heather. 
"  Thou  bonny  thing. 
Why  dost  thou  wring 
Thy  hands  in  sad  beshrewing?  " 
Sing  wooing  I 
Sing  wooing  and  warm  weather. 

A  lass  she  longed  for  a  lad: 

Sing  wooing  and  warm  weather! 
When  first  the  hill-rose  might  be  had 
And  lovers  come  together. 
"  When  skies  be  blue 
And  sweethearts  few, 
What  should  a  lass  be  doing?  " 
Sing  wooing! 
Sing  wooing  and  warm  weather! 


138  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

[The  singers  enter.  First  comes  Hikrion,  with  his  arm  about 
the  shoulder  of  Alberto,  who  plays  the  pipe  ;  then  follow, 
in  grouped  pairs,  Babblebrook  and  Fervian,  Sob  and  Flur- 
riel,  Pierre  and  Fresca,] 

Love  ripens  the  longest  day; 

Sing  wooing  and  warm  weatherl 
For  pining  heart  will  have  his  pay, 
And  climbing  lark  his  feather. 
"  Ere  snow  shall  blow, 
My  true  love,  01 
There  shall  be  rice  a-strewing," 
Sing  wooing  I 
Sing  wooing  and  warm  weatherl 

HIKRION 
A  bonny  tune; 
Well  piped,  lad!    What's  the  time?  —  Come,  Master  Clerk, 
I'll  thank  ye  to  take  your  shadow  ofif  the  dial. 
The  crow  should  perch  o'  nights. 

SANDRAC 
[Moving  aside.] 

I  pray  you,  mark: 
'Tis  noon  precise. 

HIKRION 

Time,  lasses,  time  for  the  trial! 
Now,  lords  and  masters,  slick  up  your  five  wits 
For  a  conundrum  match.    It  looks  like  nigh  all 
On  us  be  here. 

[Calls  into  the  house.] 

Come,  Polly  1   Come,  ye  kits! 
Dame  Puss  is  in  the  comer:  she'll  be  catched 


THE  REVERIE  I39 

That  don't  peep  sharp.    Polly,  fetch  out  the  bits 
O'  the  gentlemen's  visiting-cards. 

[Looks  at  the  whispering  pairs.'] 

I  see  ye're  matched 


Already,  sirs. 

Not  II 

Lad. 


ALBERTO 


HIERION 

Nay,  I'm  thy  chum, 


\Sylvia  and  the  handmaids  come  out  of  the  house,  Sylvia  carries 
a  rustic  tray  on  which  lie  a  violin,  a  sword,  a  psalm-book, 
a  paint-brush  and  a  piece  of  parchment.  These  she  pre- 
sents before  Hikrion  with  a  courtesy.  Hikrion  holds  the 
things  up  one  after  another  and  appears  puzzled.] 

Ha!    These  be  the  cards.    I  would  ye'd  scratched 
Your  initials  in  'em,  lordings,  for  I'm  mum 
If  I  can  read  your  coats-of-arms.     Here,  lass, 
I'll  ask  ye  just  to  hand  this  round  to  some 
O'  the  gentry-folk,  and,  masters,  when  they  pass, 
Choose  your  own  billets,  sith  ye  were  kind  enough 
To  leave  'em. 

[Sylvia  passes  round  the  tray ;  Sandrac,  withdrawn  from  the 
others,  follows  her  constantly  with  his  eyes.] 

SYLVIA 

[Holding  the  tray  before  Sob  and  courtesying.] 
Yours,  sir? 


140  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SOB 
iTaking  the  sword  magnificently,] 

Mine's  the  sword;  it  has 
A  savor  of  my  spirit. 

SYLVIA 

iTo  BdbhkhrookJ] 
Yours? 

BABBLEBROOK 

This  volume  of 
Remorse;  "  The  Book  of  Psahns." 

[Takes  it,] 

SYLVIA 

[Before  Pierre.] 

The  brush,  sir? 

PIERRE 
[Taking  it.] 

Yes: 
With  this  I  imprison  mountain  peaks. 

[^Sylvia  passes  to  Alberto,  who  seizes  his  violin  eagerly.] 

ALBERTO 

Dear  love, 
I  will  not  leave  you  any  more. 

[Sylvia  now  hesitates  to  approach  Sandrac,  whose  eyes  regard 
her  piercingly,] 

HIKRION 

Well,  Miss 

Polly? 

SYLVIA 

Here  is  a  card  uncalled  for. 


THE  REVERIE  141 

HIKRION 

Nay, 
Perhaps  his  Ravenship  — 

SANDRAC 
[Steps  forward,  and,  taking  the  parchment,  peers  under  Sylvia's 
bonnet.] 

'Tis  mine. 
[He  steps  back  to  his  side  of  the  scene,  while  Sylvia  retires 
shyly  among  the  unclaimed  handmaids.] 

HIKRION 

The  guess 
Comes  now,  sirs.    Hark!    As  any  ass  could  bray, 
I  have  a  daughter,  hereamid  this  lot, 
Called  Sylvia,  as  I  am  pledged  to  give  away, 
And  she  is  pledged  to  bide  your  choice.    She's  thought 
A  handsome  prize  by  many  folks,  and  kings 
They've  axed  her  for  her  hand.    But  for  to  be  short. 
And  not  to  dawdle  over  loverish  things. 
This  daughter  must  be  found,  and  they  as  don't 
Guess  who  she  is,  must  quit  their  hankerings 
And  pack  off  home.    But  if  they  guess,  this  count, 
I  have  a  couple  of  other  doubts  to  speer 
At  them!    So,  first,  —  though  't  looks  now  like  ye  won't 
Take  long  to  pick  —  choose  which  ye  take  for  her. 
Say:  —  Who  is  Sylvia? 

BABBLEBROOK,  SOB  AND  PIERRE 

[Kneeling  respectively  to  Fervian,  Flurriel  and  Fresca,] 
This  is  she! 


142  A  GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

HIKRION 

Sir  Crow, 

What  say  you? 

[Sandrac  extends  his  hand  toward  Sylvia,   who  draws  back, 

shuddering.] 

SANDRAC 
This  is  she. 

HIKRION 

How!    Think  ye,  sir, 
That  Polly  Milkmaid  —  choose  again. 

SANDRAC 

Not  so; 
I  will  abide  this  choice. 

SOB 

Pooh,  pooh,  he'll  take 
A  serving-maid. 

PIERRE 

An  artless  wench  I    Pff! 

SYLVIA 

Oh, 

That  I  were  never  bom  I 

HIKRION 
^Scowling,] 

I  cannot  break 
My  word: 

[To  the  others.] 
Pack  up  your  hearts! 

[Points  to  Sandrac] 

He's  guessed  right. 


THE  REVERIE  143 


SANDRAC 
[With  triumph.] 

SOB 

[Rising  with  the  others.] 
Odds  deathi    The  chuming-wenchl 

PIERRE 

Viable  I 

BABBLEBROOK 

Alack  1 
SANDRAC 

[With  a  movement  toward  Sylvia.] 
Lady  — 

HIKRION 
[Interposing.] 
Hight  tight!   Sure  hit  aims  slow.    Ye  can 
Answer,  mayhap,  a  second  guess.    There's  three 
In  all,  my  hasty  master. 

SANDRAC 

I'm  your  man 
For  second  and  for  third. 

HIKRION 

Hark,  then!    There  be 
A  treasure  of  my  daughter's.    You  must  tell 
Her  where  it  lies;  and  if  ye  cannot,  ye 
Must  go  your  ways. 

SYLVIA 

Dear  spirits,  guard  met 
SANDRAC 

Well: 
[fle  speaks  slowly,  never  ceasing  to  look  at  Sylvia.] 


Sol 


144  ^   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Sylvia  Queen, 
Your  treasure  lies 
In  the  inward  eyes 
Of  the  hearts  of  men. 

FELIX 

[Outside.] 

Stand  from  my  path;  this  time  you  shall  not  hold  me. 

HIKRION 
[To  Sylvia.'] 


Take  heart,  my  lass. 


SYLVIA 
I  have  yet  hope,  sweet  Pater. 


HIKRION 
[To  Sandrac] 

Ye  have  a  sharp  knack  at  the  guessing.    Still 
The  third  guess  is  the  gold  key.    Maybe  later  — 

SANDRAC 

Nay,  ask  it  now  I 

[Hikrion  hesitates.'] 

SYLVIA 
Now. 

i 
HIKRION  I 

[Hoarsely.] 

Speak  then  —  right  or  wrong  — 
Say:  What  is  Sylvia? 

SANDRAC 

I  cannot  state  a  j 

More  magic  answer  than  her  own  charm'd  song: 


THE  REVERIE  145 

[He  draws  the  parchment  from  his  gown,  opens  it  and  reads : 
in  the  first  two  lines  seeming  to  question  Hikrion,  toward 
whom  he  turns;  in  the  last  three  lines,  addressing  Sylvia, 
and  ending  with  a  slight,  stately  bow,  he  half  reveals,  under 
show  of  deference  to  her,  the  reserved  exultation  of  success.^ 

"  Who  is  Sylvia?  —  What  is  she 

That  all  her  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair  and  wise  is  she; 
The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  admired  she  might  be. 

'*  Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  Uves  with  kindness. 

[Enter  Felix;  passionate^  he  is  restrained  by  the  cold,  majestic 
form  of  Somnus.] 

FELIX 
Unloose  your  icy  hands !    Hind,  if  you  are 
A  serf  of  Sylvia's,  let  me  save  her  now. 

[SANDRACl 

"  To  her  eyes  love  doth  repair 
To  help  him  of  his  blindness; 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there." 

FELIX 
\To  Somnus.] 
Off!    I  will  free  her.  —  Sylvia!    Love!  'tis  I. 


You've  won. 


SYLVIA 

[To  Sandrac,'] 


146  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

HIKRION 
My  lassie! 
[Turns  away  and  hides  his  face  against  Alberto.'] 

SANDRAC 
[Taking  Sylvia*s  hand."] 

Till  to-night  —  'tis  longi 

FELIX 
Sylvia! 

[To  Somnus.] 
Let  go. 

[SomnuSy  with  imperturbable  clutch,  still  holds  him.    Felix 
turns  and  wrestles  with  him.] 

My  will  against  your  will. 
We'll  match. 

[While  Sandrac,  in  the  sunlight  of  the  middle  background, 
kisses  the  outstretched  hand  of  Sylvia,  who  turns  her  face 
away;  while  Fervian,  Flurriel,  Fresca  and  the  suitors 
on  the  left,  and  the  six  other  handmaidens,  on  the  right, 
gaze  at  Sandrac  in  awe  and  dread,  —  Felix  and  Somnus, 
in  the  foreground,  contrast  with  these  their  ghostly  figures, 
wrestling.  Felix  struggles  with  an  agony  of  power; 
Somnus  resists  with  silent,  terrible  placidity.  Presently, 
while  the  curtain  is  slowly  descending,  Somnus  throws 
Felix,  and  puts  his  foot  upon  him.] 

SOMNUS 
Down! 

[curtain.] 


ACT  IV 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

Of 


ACT  IV 

Scene  I: 

A  cleft  in  a  mountain,  at  the  bend  of  a  torrent.  At  the  back, 
a  steep  wall  of  the  mountain,  overgrown  with  stunted 
cypresses,  rises  to  a  jutting  clijff  of  rock,  which  overtops 
the  bed  of  the  stream;  above  this  the  sky.  The  stream 
itself  emerges  precipitately  from  a  cavern  on  the  left, 
whence,  in  a  deep,  rock-strewn  gulley,  it  rushes  out,  first 
,  straight,  and  then  —  at  the  back  of  scene  —  bending  to  the 
right  and  downward,  disappears  behind  the  steep  back 
wall  aforesaid.  At  the  right  front,  a  mountain  path  — 
visible  for  some  distance  —  enters  the  scene  and  leads, 
by  its  right  fork,  to  the  rough  foreground,  which  forms 
the  front  bank  of  the  stream  and  the  larger  part  of  the 
stage;  by  its  left  fork,  turning  downward  into  the  rocky 
bed  of  the  stream.  At  left,  near  the  front,  a  gigantic, 
lightning-withered  oak  tosses  its  sere  limbs  upward  and 
outward  over  the  torrent,  near  its  egress  from  the  cavern. 
All  these  scenic  features,  however,  are  but  dimly  or  tran- 
siently discernable,  for  dusk  masses  of  mist  roll  through 
the  scene  and  down  the  torrent,  shifting,  closing  and  dis- 
parting at  the  whim  of  intermittent  and  passionate  gusts 
of  wind. 
As  the  scene  opens,  enter,  right,  along  the  pasSj  Felix. 

FELIX 
What  rush  of  streams  precipitant 
Makes  in  my  ears  mill- noises?    Why 

149 


I50  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Must  I  outface  this  blinding  gale 

Of  mountain  surf?  —  Still  none  to  answer! 

Come,  then,  I'll  find  an  airy  alcove, 

And  pedestal  myself  in  patience 

Here  on  the  stair  of  this  gusty  castle 

Of  fog,  till  Sylvia  comes,  to  guide 

Me  up  and  on. 

[He  gropes  his  way  to  a  log,  green  with  moss,  which  has  fallen 
across  the  stream.  On  the  front  end  of  this  he  sits.  Here 
he  is  suddenly  roused  from  his  reverie  by  a  wild  gust  and 
a  voice,  seeming  to  come  from  the  branches  of  the  tree.] 

A  VOICE 
Felix! 

FELIX 
Who  speaks? 

THE  VOICE 
She  will  not  come;  thou  art  alone. 

FELIX 

Whom  speak  you  of? 

THE  VOICE 

Of  Sylvia. 

FELIX 

She 
Will  come. 


THE  REVERIE 


151 


THE  VOICE 

A  merry  trysting-place! 

{The  wind  howls  in  the  ravine  and  through  the  branches  of 
the  oak.] 

FELIX 

[Rising,] 

Strange!    Such  incorporal  discourse 
As  this  is  elvish:  more  elusive 
Even  than  my  own. 

[Peers  up,  from  beneath  the  tree.] 

Is  there  a  creature 
In  the  branches?    I  can  see  but  faintly 
For  fog.  —  I  must  have  fancied  it. 
And  yet  I  know  the  voice  of  fancy 
Is  often  the  just  premonitor 
Of  truth.    Not,  though,  when  it  is  phantasm, 
Faint,  blurred  and  undefined  like  this, 
Without  distinguishable  image 
For  reason  to  seize  on.     For  fancy 
Is  pied  and  vivid;  this  is  phantasm. 

A  SECOND  VOICE 
Felix! 

FELIX 

What  now?  —  another  voice? 

SECOND  VOICE 
Go  back;  return  to  Arden. 


152  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

FELIX 

No; 
She  bade  me  to  await  her  here. 

SECOND  VOICE 
But  why? 

FELIX 

For  nothing  ill,  that^s  sure. 
SECOND  VOICE 

Is  not  this  an  ill  pass? 

FELIX 

Not  if 


She  come. 


SECOND  VOICE 
But  where  is  she? 


Where? 


FELIX 

She  comes. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  VOICES 

FELIX 
In  my  heart's  assurance. 

SECOND  VOICE 

Ho. 

His  heart's  assurance! 

[A  wild  cataract  of  laughter  leaps  from  the  boughs  and  dies 
away  down  the  ravine.    Felix  peers  again  into  the  tree.] 

FELIX 

Stranger  still! 
Are  those  eyes  there  that,  like  two  embers, 


THE  REVERIE  153 

Pry  at  me  through  this  smoke  of  mist? 
I'll  test  it  with  this  oak-gall. 

{Felix  picks  up  a  gall  and  throws  it  into  the  tree.  A  dim  cat- 
like form  hounds  from  a  branch  and  disappears  in  the 
JogA 

Ah! 

This  voice  has  limbs  —  it  leaps  —  a  lynx! 

[Pursuing  it,  he  lifts  a  rock,  which  he  hurls  after  it  down 
the  ravine.] 

Now  caterwaul!  —  The  flood  shall  drown 

Your  pitch. 

[Returning  slowly.] 

In  this  gray  land  of  cypress, 
The  elements  and  dumb  creatures 
Wag  tongues  in  mockery  of  men. 

[A  loud  uproar  of  applause  and  hand-clapping  hursts  from 
the  branches.] 

A  THIRD  VOICE 
Felix! 

FELIX 

Once  more?  —  What  ogre-oak 
Is  this,  which  has  a  hundred  heads? 

THIRD  VOICE 
A  himdred  heads! 

[A  reecho  of  applause  and  of  clappings^ 
We  are  tongue- waggers; 
We  will  not  wag  of  you  —  not  you! 
We  will  not  clap  for  you  —  not  you! 


154  ^   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

We  will  not  cry  your  name  —  nay,  nay! 
From  you  forever  we  fly  away. 

\The  sun  breaks  for  an  instant  through  the  fogy  as  a  silvery 
flock  of  pigeons  fly  from  amid  the  dead  branches  and,  with 
a  great  flutter  of  wings,  vanish  in  the  mist  of  the  ravine. 
Felix  watches  them  as  they  disappear. \ 

FELIX 
Your  wings  are  beautiful,  and  yet 
Your  voices  sound  as  hoarse  as  ravens' 
Now  in  my  ears,  that  are  inured 
To  Sylvia's  soft  chidings,  more 
Precious  to  me  than  all  your  praises. 

{He  has  hardly  ceased,  when  there  resounds  a  chorus  of  pierc- 
ing hisses;  while  from  the  chasm,  where  the  pigeons  dis- 
appeared, a  flock  of  crows,  winging  through  the  obscure 
air,  settles  hissing  upon  the  branches  of  the  oak,  which 
again  is  involved  in  mist.] 

THE  FIRST  VOICE 

Felix! 

FELIX 
What!    Are  you  back  again? 

SECOND  VOICE 
We're  come  again  to  change  our  tune: 
To  sing  to  you  like  this,  this,  this! 
We'll  leave  no  more  —  we're  come  to  stay; 
We'll  stick  by  you  for  ay  and — ay. 
[Hisses  again.] 


THE  REVERIE  155 

FELIX 
Why,  now  your  feathers  fit  your  throats. 
I  thank  you  for  your  chorus;  it 
Is  helpful  to  my  purposes. 
For  virtues  are  invulnerable; 
And  as  for  my  shortcomings,  if 
You'll  hiss  them  only  half  as  harsh 
As  I  do,  you  and  I  together 
Shall  put  them  soon  to  shame;  and  so 
I  thank  you  for  your  comradeship. 

THIRD  VOICE 
Why,  then  we  will  not  stay. 

THE  OTHER  VOICES 

Nay!    Nay! 
{The  crows  fly  away  again  down  the  ravine  ^  hissing  fainter  and 
fainter.] 

FELIX 
Now  what  a  twinge  would  vice  my  sides 
To  crow  with  laughter,  at  the  rout 
Of  such  hypocrisy,  had  I 
Not  read  long  since  —  writ  large  in  tears 
Of  gay  philosophers  —  this  warning 
To  fools:  ''Laugh,  fool;   but  laugh  not  a/." 
[Starting,  he  peers  down  the  mountain  pass.] 

Ah!  see:  the  ''silvery  dove"  returns. 
Sylvia! 

[Enter  Sylvia^  as  a  spirit.] 


156  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SYLVIA 
You  have  waited  long, 
And  I  came  not. 

FELIX 
I  could  have  waited 
My  latest  breath,  so  to  have  carried 
This  vision  of  you  with  me  to  darkness. 

0  Sylvia! 

SYLVIA 
To  save  us  both 

1  am  come  here  to  guide  you.    Do 
You  know  this  stream? 

FELIX 
I  do  not  know, 
Nor  where  I  am,  but  that  I  walk 
With  you. 

SYLVIA 
This  is  a  shoulder  of 
That  fabled  mount  Parnassus,  which 
At  the  world's  dawning  flung  afar 
Its  shadow  over  men.  —  This  torrent 
Springs  from  its  heart  of  olden  marble 
Deep-hid  in  the  dim  labyrinths 
Of  yonder  cavern,  whence  it  pours 
Here  headlong;  farther,  at  that  bend. 
It  plunges  downward,  ever  discoursing 
In  its  own  throat,  till  at  the  base 
It  feeds  the  stagnant  marsh  of  Lethe. 


THE  REVERIE  157 

FELIX 


So  this  is  Lethe  stream? 

SYLVIA 
'Tis  near 
The  bright  head  waters  of  that  stream, 
Whose  springing  fountain  has  a  virtue 
Which  lower  it  loses  in  the  marsh; 
For  where  it  bubbles  up,  its  waters 
May  be  transported  without  losing 
Their  tinctiire  of  obUvion. 
But  they  who  seek  forgetfulness 
From  Lethe  marsh,  go  browsing  there 
Gregarious,  like  herded  cattle 
To  pasture,  and  when  they  have  drunk, 
They  rot  into  the  swamp  like  stumps. 

FELIX 

But  what  of  them  who  drink  its  source 

Transported  from  the  secret  spring 

In  yonder  cavern? 

SYLVIA 

They  are  dealt 
Instant  annihilation,  like 
Eagles  midair,  whom  the  fiery  blade 
Of  Ughtning  severs.     For  Felix,  know, 
Oblivion  of  evil  may 
Be  compassed  in  either  of  two  ways:  — 
By  Time,  a  fat,  relapsing  sluggard. 
That  sits  with  Death  on  the  bog  of  Lethe, 


158  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Oft  at  whose  summons  Oblivion  lags 
To  take  part  in  our  funerals; 
Or  else,  by  man's  own  Will,  in  his 
Self-mastered  fortress,  on  the  heights 
Of  this  same  mountain:  there,  his  will, 
By  a  mandate  instantaneous 
Hurls  down  the  giddied  evil  in 
The  shadow  of  forgetfulness, 
Where,  falling,  it  dies  apoplex'd 
By  its  own  impotence. 

FELIX 

Oh,  then, 
Guide  me  to  clamber  to  that  source 
Where  I  may  fill  my  spirit's  flask 
To  bear  to  Sandrac  and  to  all 
My  creatures  that  constrain  you.     Fain 
Would  I  forget  them  with  my  will. 
And  drug  them  with  a  ghttering  draught 
From  Lethe's  suprem^  fount. 

SYLVIA 

So  only, 
Our  love  may  be  redeemed;  for  soon 
At  sundown,  Sandrac  I  must  wed, 
Unless,  by  then,  from  your  own  hand. 
He  drinks  the  obliterating  drug. 

FELIX 
He  shall!  —  Is  this  the  path?    Oh,  come! 
I  wait  like  powder  to  be  flashed. 
The  torrent  beckons  me.  —  Your  hand! 


THE  REVERIE  159 

[He  starts  to  cross  the  torrent  on  the  log,] 

SYLVIA 
Wait!  —  Hearts  can  never  clamber  there 
Unshrived. 

FELIX 

What  shame  still  have  not  I 

Confessed? 

SYLVIA 

But  now,  as  I  came  here, 
A  wounded  lynx  sprang  in  my  path 
And,  fawning  helpless,  died  there. 

FELIX 

Him 

I  killed,  for  on  this  bough  he  sat 
And  laughed  a  hellish  laugh  at  me. 

SYLVIA 
And  you  would  kill  a  f ooKsh  creature 
For  your  own  ignorance? 

FELDC 

Not  so; 

It  gibed  my  sins. 

SYLVIA 

How  could  it  gibe, 
Your  sins  —  and  not  your  ignorance? 

FELIX 
[Moved^ 
I  hate  my  thought  and  act. 


i6o  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SYLVIA 
[Gently.] 

My  friend 

FELIX 

And  yet  it  spoke,  and  so  did  flocks 

Of  birds  that  perched  in  these  same  boughs. 

SYLVL\ 
It  was  not  they  who  spoke.    You  heard 
The  inmates  of  this  oak;  the  trimk 
Is  hollow,  and  within  it  dwell 
The  three  mist-mothers.     It  is  they 
Who  ravel  the  Norns'  weavings.    See, 
Here  in  the  tree  bole  is  a  door.  — 
I'll  knock,  for  we  have  business  here. 

[Sylvia  knocks;  voices  answer  from  within.] 

FIRST  VOICE 
Who  raps? 

SECOND  VOICE 
'Tis  the  woodpecker. 

THIRD  VOICE 
Shut  her  out  —  shut  her  out!    She  hunts  for  worms. 

FELIX 

These  voices  are  the  same  I  heard. 


THE  REVERIE  i6l 

THE  THREE  VOICES 
{Singing  within  the  oak,] 

Lithe  and  nimble,  blithe  and  nimble, 
Spinner's  loom,  and  stitcher's  thimble. 

Ply  the  thread  for  time's  untwisting. 
Block  the  shuttle!    Break  the  spindle! 
Dream  shall  wane  and  deed  shall  dwindle. 

Where  the  mist-mothers  hold  their  trysting. 
What  Noma  knit 
Pluck,  bit  by  bit! 
Piecemeal,  tatter  and  scatter  it! 

All  of  triumph  —  all  of  travail, 
Ravel,  mother,  ravel! 

FELIX 
What  song  is  this? 

SYLVIA 

'Tis  one  they  sing 
At  work,  as  they  wind  the  grand  designs 
And  intricate  thought  of  patient  years 
Back  on  their  ball  of  primal  mist. 
I'll  knock  again  more  loud. 

[She  knocks  again.] 

THE  FIRST  VOICE 
[Within.] 

Who  raps? 

SYLVIA 
Sylvia! 

FIRST  VOICE 
'Tis  the  dove! 

M 


i62  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SECOND  VOICE 

She  hunts  for  seeds. 

THIRD  VOICE 

Fetch  her  in!    Fetch  her  in! 

[The  door  in  the  hark  opens,  and  forth  leap  three  female  figures  j 
whose  wraith-like  garments,  mingling  with  the  mists, 
sway  on  the  winds,  and  vaguely  define  the  forms  of  an  old, 
white-haired  woman,  a  matron  in  the  prime  of  life,  and 
a  light-footed  damsel.  They  greet  Sylvia  and  courtesy 
round  and  round  her.] 

THE  WHITE-HAIRED 
Welcome,  white  dove !    Welcome  to  Letheland. 

THE  THREE 
Welcome!    Welcome! 

THE  WHITE-HAIRED 

[Stops  suddenly,  points  at  Felix  and  addresses  the  Matron,] 
Mother,  who  is  it? 

THE  MATRON 
[Doing  the  same  and  addressing  the  Damsel.] 
Mother,  what  is  it? 

THE  DAMSEL 
[Addressing  the  White-Haired  and  running  away.] 
Mother,  'tis  a  man! 

THE  THREE 
[Rush  into  the  tree,  closing  the  bark  again.] 
A  man! 


THE  REVERIE  163 

FELIX 
Are  these  the  wives  of  Somnus? 

SYLVIA 

Yes. 

FELIX 
But  why  did  each  say  "mother"  to 
Her  neighbor? 

SYLVIA 

'Tis  because,  from  damsel 
To  granny,  they  are  their  own  offspring. 
For  they  are  barren  to  create 
New  fruitful  forms,  to  populate 
The  nebulous  ether;  yet  they  are 
Wondrous  prolific  of  themselves. 
Thus,  ever  when  these  fogs  grow  big 
^  With  lusty  winds,  even  as  a  bubble 
Distends  and,  coalescing  with 
Its  in-blown  substance,  bursts  to  beget 
Its  twin  —  so  each  gives  birth  to  the  other, 
With  most  unprofitable  anguish 
Tormenting  their  void  wombs. 

FELIX 

How  strange! 
An  infinite  monotony 
Of  metamorphosis! 

SYLVIA 

[Raps  again.] 
Open,  mother! 


i64  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

THE  FIRST  VOICE 


SECOND  VOICE 


Nay,  nay! 

A  man! 

THIRD  VOICE 

He'll  rob  us  of  our  ravellings! 

SYLVIA 

Nay,  he  is  bodiless,  save  as 
We  too  are  bodied.     Have  no  fear, 
But  fetch  me  forth  the  woof  of  a  snarl 
Was  woven  by  a  youth  called  Felix 
And  named  ''  A  Garland  to  Sylvia." 

FIRST  VOICE 
Is  he  without  there  harmless? 

SECOND  VOICE 
Ay,  is  he  harmless? 

THIRD  VOICE 
Who'll  be  his  voucher? 

SYLVIA 

Harmless  he  is.    Fear  not.  — Come  forth. 

[They  come  forth  again,  more  timidly,  bringing  a  crooked  piece 
of  tapestry,  woven  loosely  of  silver,  gray,  green  and  gold 
threads,  depicting  a  wood,  with  grouped  figures  among 
the  trees.  The  whole,  save  for  one  form  in  a  black  gown, 
dull  and  opaque,  glisters  with  a  phosphorescent  light, 
which  makes  the  figures  appear  to  move,  enter  and  depart y 
so  as  incessantly  to  form  new  scenes  and  groupings.] 


THE  REVERIE  165 

THE  WHITE-HAIRED 

Greeting,  white  dove!  greeting  from  Letheland! 

THE  THREE 

[Courtesying.] 

Greeting! 

SYLVIA 

[Taking  the  tapestry  from  the  Three^  she  hands  it  to  Felix,] 

Look  there! 

FELIX 

[Fascinated.] 

My  play! 

THE  THREE 
Nay,  nay,  nay,  'tis  ours! 

[Snatching  it  from  Felix,  they  guard  it  jealously.] 

SYLVIA 

Peace!    Give  it  me. 

THE  WHITE-HAIRED 

Not  I,  he  will  steal  it. 

THE  OTHER  TWO 

Not  we,  he  will  steal  it. 

SYLVIA 
Why,  keep  it  then,  and  hold  it,  while 
I  take  the  end  of  the  ravelling  thread. 

THE  WHITE-HAIRED 

Mother,  didst  hear? 


i66  A   GARLAND   TO  SYLVIA 


THE  MATRON 


Mother,  she'll  ravel  it. 

THE  DAMSEL 
Mother,  we'll  make  merry. 

THE  THREE 
[Laughing,  reach  to  Sylvia  a  fine  luminous  thread.] 
Here  it  is.     Here  it  is! 

[Sylvia  takes  it  and  starts  toward  the  log,\ 

FELIX 
[Interposing.] 
What  will  you  do?    Destroy  it? 

SYLVL\ 

Nay, 
You  must  do  that.     I  can  but  lead 
If  you  consent.     Hold  here  the  thread 
With  me,  and  I  will  guide  you,  by 
Its  slender  Hght,  to  Lethe's  source. 
Now!  —  Do  you  will  it? 

[Felix,  hesitating,  gazes  on  the  fabric  of  his  play,  which  one 
of  the  mist-women  holds,  while  the  other  two,  with  dex- 
terous fingerings,  prepare  to  unravel  it.] 

FELIX 

Oh,  how  fair 
A  tapestry  I  dreamed  of  weaving. 
When  first  I  started  fancy's  shuttle: 
So  fair,  that,  in  its  golden  lights 


THE  REVERIE  167 

And  green,  the  marvelling  eyes  of  men 

Should  own  that  heaven  and  earth  were  blended; 

That  in  this  web  of  sylvan  half-light 

Nature  and  man  had  found  a  symbol 

Of  their  essential  truth  of  beauty. 

SYLVIA 
But  was  it  so? 

FELIX 

No,  for  a  shadow 
Inwove  its  night  in  my  brightest  noon-day: 
A  phantasm,  cast  by  my  self-love. 
That  barred  my  vision,  and  marred  the  clear 
And  fair  design. 

SYLVL\ 

Then  why  do  you 
Stand  dubious,  my  Felix? 

FELIX 
Oh, 

It  is  not  doubt,  but  bitter  love. 
Heart-yearning  for  a  strange  miscarriage, 
Which,  had  it  come  to  birth,  perchance 
Had  awed  the  world  with  beauty.     Ah! 
But  this  no  more!  for  out  of  failure 
Comes  faith.    Now  to  the  great  solution! 
Ravel  out,  you  mothers  of  the  mist! 
This  fabric  of  my  buzzing  brain 
Whirl  into  filaments  as  fine 
As  gossamer,  and  let  the  winds 


i68  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

Dissolve  them.     I  myself  will  pull 

The  ravelling  thread.  —  Now,  Sylvia,  lead! 

SYLVIA 
Hold  fast  the  thread,  and  here  the  flask 
To  fill  at  Lethe's  fountain.    Follow! 

FELIX 

Before  me,  you:    Behind  —  the  play! 

[Crossing  the  log,  they  skirt  the  torrent  by  a  narrow  ridge-path 
on  its  left  bank,  and,  ascending  into  the  dim  cavern, 
lighted  only  by  the  luminous  guiding-thread,  are  visible 
as  far  as  an  abrupt  bend,  where  they  disappear.  From 
within  the  cavern,  however,  their  voices  are  still  heard 
above  the  torrent  —  ever  more  faintly,] 

Sylvia! 

SYLVIA 
Felix! 

FELIX 

Sylvia! 

SYLVIA 

Higher! 

[Meantime,  in  the  foreground,  beneath  the  oak,  the  dwindling 
play-tapestry,  held  by  the  White-Haired,  is  being  ravelled 
by  the  two  other  mist-wives.  These,  with  whirling  arms, 
whip  away  the  thread  in  luminous  skeins;  in  doing  so, 
their  swaying  limbs  keep  time  to  the  cadence  of  their  song, 
till,  at  its  close,  as  the  tapestry  wholly  disappears,  a  great 
gust  of  fog  envelops  them  in  the  act  of  returning  to  the 
hollow  oak.\ 


THE  REVERIE  169 

THE  THREE  MOTHERS 

Out  of  smother  and  darkness,  mother, 
Tell  us,  who  shall  shape  another 

Woof  like  the  one  that  we're  unweaving? 
Many  and  many  a  nobler  weaver 
Shall  toil  anew,  but  none  can  ever 
Recapture  the  soul's  conceiving. 
Whirl  a  skein 
Of  joy  and  pain  — 
Then  wind  it  on  the  world  again! 

All  of  triumph,  all  of  travail 
Ravel,  mother,  ravel! 

See  this  tangle,  wrought  in  wrangle, 
Like  an  ill-hung  chime  a-jangle  — 

Better  its  fabric  fell  to  ground! 
Better  or  worse,  worse  or  better, 
The  misty  fingers  brook  no  fetter. 

And  leave  not  a  thread,  not  a  sound. 
Thought  in  its  rune, 
Love  at  its  noon, 
Like  beauty's  bubble,  is  burst  —  is  gone! 

[Just  as  they  disappear  in  the  oak,  a  flood  of  sunlight  slants 
through  the  upper  mists,  revealing  above  the  obscured  tor- 
rent, the  jutting  bluff  of  the  mountain,  and  above  that  a 
rift  of  the  blue  sky.  Against  this  rift,  Sylvia  and  Felix ^ 
emerging  from  underground,  come  forward  upon  the 
bluff.] 

FELIX 

The  sunlight! 


I70  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

SYLVIA 
Is  the  flask  filled  full? 

FELIX 

Behold  it  glittering  to  the  brim 
With  bright  oblivion. 

SYLVIA 

Brave  heart! 
So  shall  you  bring  it  back  to  Arden. 
There,  when  your  creatures  all  have  drunk, 
Behold  what  shall  result  —  look  down! 

[Sylvia  points  from  the  bluff  to  where,  in  the  bed  of  the  torrent, 
a  varied  group  of  figures  have  emerged  from  the  moun- 
tain-pass, and  are  being  driven  down  the  rocky  stream  by 
Somnus.  The  first  two  are  the  forms  of  Babblebrook  and 
Sob,  disputing  dumbly;  then  follows  Pierre,  with  easel 
under  his  arm,  talking  to  himself;  behind  him,  Sandrac, 
with  his  proud  smile  and  pace  of  meditation.] 

FELDC 
What  is  the  portent  of  this  pageant? 

SYLVIA 
A  vision  and  a  prophecy 
Of  what  shall  come  to  pass,  when  you 
Shall  keep  your  vow  to  me. 

FELIX 

AU,  aU, 
To  Lethe? 


THE  REVERIE  171 

SYLVIA 
Do  you  weep? 

FELIX 

In  thanks 

And  joy,  that  they  shall  menace  you 

No  more. 

SYLVIA 

Then  is  there  none  you  would 
Reclaim?    Look  down. 

FELIX 
Even  him? 
[Behind  Somnus,  and  apart  from  the  other  descending  figures, 
passes  downward  the  lithe  figure  of  Alberto.  Stepping 
from  rock  to  rock  with  unconscious  agility,  he  seems  to 
pour  his  soul  forth  to  the  ravine  through  his  violin.  Yet 
no  sound  is  heard  from  the  swaying  instrument,  and 
Alberto,  with  the  others,  disappears  at  the  downward  bend 
of  the  stream. 

From  the  verge  of  the  cliff  Felix  makes  an  imploring  gesture.] 

Alberto! 

[curtain.] 


172  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

ACT  IV:    Scene  II  i 

An  opening  in  the  wood  near  Hikrion's  cottage,  A  rough 
semicircle  of  trees  festooned  with  ropes  of  flowers,  in- 
terwoven with  blossoming  vines,  forms  as  it  were  a  solid 
garland  for  the  scene.  Through  this  are  only  two  narrow 
openings :  one  on  the  left,  overlapt  by  the  circlet  in  the  fore 
ground,  is  not  visible;  through  the  other,  on  the  right,  the 
last  horizontal  rays  of  the  sun  illumine  the  flowery  back- 
ground. In  the  centre  of  the  scene  is  raised  a  double, 
rustic  throne.  Standing  beside  this  is  discovered  Hikrion, 
clad  in  a  robe  and  cowl  of  golden  green. 

HIKRION 

First,  I  must  do  the  priestly  offices 

For  this  upstart,  who  prigs  away  my  lass  — 

My  darlingest  Sylvia;  then,  may  I  please! 

The  other  three,  seeing  the  sorry  pass 

They've  brought  their  mistress  to  —  Fervian  and  Flurry 

And  Fresca  with  'em  —  they've  sworn  also,  as 

A  kind  o'  penance-game  to  cheer  the  worry, 

To  wed  these  wooing  crittem  —  Sob  and  Pierre 

And  Babblebrook,  rather'n  see  Sylvia  sorry 

Alone.    And  me  this  crow-groom  Sandrac  there  — 

Me  being  a  kind  o'  parson  to  the  peasant 

Folks,  swapping  lies  and  preaching  'em  to  pair  — 

Says  to  me:  "  Papa  Hikrion,  come,  be  pleasant 

And  be  our  priest;  a  woodland  service  makes 

Two  one,  as  well  as  Westminster."     So  I, 

For  Sylvia's  sake,  agree  on't,  though  it  breaks 

The  pipe  o*  mirth  within  me.     But  now's  nigh 

Their  time  of  coming. — 'Tis  a  bonny  scene, 


THE  REVERIE  173 

Though  I  be  praiser  of  the  work  that's  mine: 
I've  tidied  out  a  chapel  here  in  the  green 
And  hollowed  wood-cups  for  the  wedding-wine.  — 
Hark:  now  they  come. 

[Alberto's  violin  is  heard  outside.'] 

The  boy  plays  sad  as  a  pine 

When  winter's  coming  in. 

[Enter,  left,  the  wedding  procession,  walking  slowly  to  the 
accompaniment  of  Alberto's  violin,  which  renders  a  minor  va- 
riation of  the  melody  *'Who  is  Sylvia?"  Enter  first  — 
two  by  two  —  six  Handmaids,  carrying  each  a  garland  of 
flowers.  With  these  they  form  an  arbor,  the  garlands 
being  held  aloft  and  touching,  to  form  the  arch.  Beneath 
this,  in  pairs,  pass,  in  sequence.  Sob  and  Flurriel,  Babble- 
brook  and  Fervian,  Pierre  and  Fresca.  The  couples,  as 
they  issue  forth,  join  garlands  to  form  an  extension  of  the 
bower,  so  that  Sandrac  and  Sylvia  —  the  former  still  dressed 
in  his  black  gown,  the  latter  as  a  bride  —  enter  the  scene 
through  a  living  bower  of  maidens,  suitors  and  flowers,  and 
pass  to  where  Hikrion  awaits  them,  in  front  of  the  double 
throne.  Here  Sandrac  takes  his  stand  by  the  right  throne, 
Sylvia  by  the  left,  while  the  others  break  the  bower  and 
group  themselves  on  either  side.  After  Sandrac  and  Sylvia, 
Alberto  enters  alone.  Last  of  all,  enter  Felix  and  Sam- 
nuSf  who  do  not  pass  through  the  bower.  As  Alberto 
ceases  to  play^  Sandrac  speaks.] 

SANDRAC 
Now,  Sylvia,  Apollo  plays  my  Cupid 
And  shoots  you  with  his  dying  shaft  of  gold; 
And  now,  ere  these  fresh  day-flowers  here  be  drooped, 
And  you  and  your  bright  bevy  change  your  mould 


174  ^   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

To  moonlit  spirits,  we  will  wed.    What  you  bid 
Shall  be  my  law.    I  wish  you  joys  star-fold. 

SYLVIA 

Wishes  unwilled  are  like  unplanted  seeds: 
They  dry  in  the  brain,  like  wheat-ears  in  a  bam, 
That,  kept  too  long,  lose  power  to  get  their  breeds. 

SANDRAC 
What  have  I  left  tmsown,  that  I  should  earn 
Such  sad  reproof? 

SYLVIA      - 

Live  wishes  sprout  in  deeds;  — 
But  shall  we  to  the  service? 

SANDRAC 

That  we  will. 
But  first,  that  all  may  hail  the  joy  that's  mine 
Let  every  bridegroom  here  his  beaker  fill 
And  drink  "A  Health  to  Sylvia!"     Come,  wine,  wine, 
Good  Pater  Hikrion. 

HIKRION 
[Muttering,  as  he  pours  out  wine  from  a  leathern  vat.] 
By  Selenus,  I'll 
Not  be  dubbed  Pater  by  that  beak  o'  thine. 

[While  Hikrion  pours  the  wine,  into  five  wooden  cups,  Felix 
reaches  over  his  shoidder,  and  pours  into  each  cup  liquid 
from  his  own  flask.] 

FELIX 
Drop,  Lethe,  drop!    Your  bane  emancipates 
My  love,  and  makes  this  murder  innocent. 


TEE  REVERIE  175 

[HIKRION] 
[Passing  a  cup  to  Sandrac] 

Here,  Master  Groom,  ye'll  find  this  a  true  rill 
From  Pan's  own  vineyard. 

FELIX 
Yes,  Sandrac,  you  will  find  it  heady.    Try  it. 

SANDRAC 
[Taking  the  cup.] 

So?    Pass  round,  then,  pass 
Still  round,  old  fellow. 

[Hikrion  passes  cups  to  Sob,  Babblebrook  and  Pierre  ;  lastly  to 
Alberto.] 

HIKRION 
Drink  too,  ladl 

ALBERTO 

No,  no, 

I  am  not  thirsty. 

HIKRION 
Pho!  this  here's  prime  class; 
'Twill  make  the  music  mount  in  thee.     Come! 

ALBERTO 

[Taking  the  cup.] 

Oh, 

Well! 

FELIX 

Could  he  not  spare  that  one!    Alberto  mine! 

SANDRAC 
Drink!     A  health  to  Sylvia!    Now,  each  cup 
On  high!    Long  life  to  Sylvia!    Sylvia  ho! 


176  A   GARLAND  TO  SYLVIA 

THE  SUITORS 
Long  life  to  Sylvia  I 

SANDRAC 
[Pointing  to  the  west.] 
See!     My  star  is  up, 
And  the  world's  day-god  sets.    Drink  this  with  me, 
Sylvia! 

[He  extends  the  cup  to  her.    Instantly  Felix  steps  forward  and 
empties  his  flask  into  it.] 

FELIX 
The  dregs  —  here,  have  it  all! 

[Flinging  his  flask  away.] 

So,  Sandrac,  drink: 
Drink  deep  as  your  own  joy  —  and  Lethe. 

SANDRAC 
[As  Sylvia  draws  hack.'] 

Still  you  hesitate  to  sup? 
Then  first  will  I:  and  then  —  your  lips! 
[He  drinks.     Simultaneously,    as    the    other   Suitors   drink 

also,  the  twilight  deepens  into  blackness.    Out  of  the  dark 

sounds  the  voice  of  Somnus.] 

SOMNUS 

Felix, 
Farewell! 

THE  VOICE  OF  FELIX 

Farewell,  Somnus! 
[Swiftly,  a  dawning  moonlight  illumines  the  garland,  and 
reveals  Felix,  clad  in  his  black  gown  of  the  Prologue, 
standing  where  Sandrac  had  stood  beside  Sylvia.     To- 


THE  REVERIE    ,  177 

gether  they  mount  the  rustic  throne.  Sandrac  and  the 
Suitors  have  disappeared.  Hikrion's  green  robe  and 
cowl  have  altered  to  a  garb  of  hides  and  wreath  of  grape 
leaves,  clothing  a  shrewd-eyed  Satyr.  With  lifted  pipe, 
he  leads  an  entering  throng  of  sylvan  Spirits.  These,  en- 
circling in  their  dance  the  double  throne,  shower  garlands 
at  the  feet  of  Felix  and  Sylvia.] 

THE  SPIRITS 

Then  to  Sylvia  let  us  sing 

That  Sylvia  is  excelling! 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling; 
To  her  garlands  let  us  bring! 

[curtain.] 
FINIS 


^  THE 

UNIVEKSfTY 

Of 


POEMS 

By  PERCY  MACKAYE 

Decorated  cloth  ^  gilt  top     igo  pages    Index     $1.2^  net 

A  delightful  volume  of  poems  by  Percy  MacKaye  revealing  in  their  varied 
forms  and  metres  and  subjects  his  wonderful  lyric  gift  and  versatility.  The 
book  is  divided  into  two  groups,  Poems  Chiefly  Occasional  and  Poems  Lyrical 
and  Descriptive.  In  the  first  of  these  are  included  "  Ticonderoga,"  a  ballad 
read  at  the  three  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  discovery  of  Lake  Champlain ; 
"  Tennyson  " ;  "  The  Air  Voyage  up  the  Hudson,"  stanzas  written  on  witnessing 
from  Battery  Park  the  first  flight  made  by  Wilbur  Wright  in  his  aeroplane 
from  Governor's  Island  to  Grant's  Tomb  on  the  morning  of  October  4,  1909 ; 
"  Choral  Song  for  the  New  Theatre,"  sung  by  the  members  of  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  Company  at  the  ceremony  of  the  laying  of  the  corner  stone  of  the  New 
Theatre,  New  York,  December  15,  1908,  and  also  at  the  opening  ceremony, 
November  6,  1909 ;  "An  Ode  to  the  American  Universities  " ;  "  The  Sistine 
Eve,"  fragments  of  an  Oratorio  written  for  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury, and  several  others. 

The  second  group  contains  charming  lyrics  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects, 
and  virile  sonnets  to  eminent  men  such  as  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  Francis 
James  Child,  George  Pierce  Baker,  William  Vaughn  Moody,  George  Grey 
Barnard,  and  others. 

Mr.  MacKaye  has  already  been  recognized  by  the  critics  as  one  of  the  lead- 
ing poets  of  to-day.  The  present  volume  demonstrates  his  ability  to  a  still 
greater  degree,  proving  conclusively  that  those  who  forecasted  for  him  a  bril- 
liant future  were  right. 

ODE  ON  THE  CENTENARY  OF 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

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The  centennial  of  Lincoln's  birth  is  an  occasion  to  inspire  a  great  patriolic 
effort ;  and  the  poet  has  not  been  wanting. 

The  dignity,  sincerity,  and  noble  simplicity  of  Percy  MacKaye's  poem  make 
it  a  fitting  Memorial  of  the  great  President,  and  no  one  who  cares  for  Lincoln's 
fame  will  wish  to  miss  this  tribute  to  his  character. 

Hitherto  Mr.  MacKaye  has  been  considered  the  most  brilliant  of  the 
younger  dramatists  of  the  day  and  one  of  the  most  promising  of  American 
poets.  The  publication  of  this  Ode,  in  the  opinion  of  critics  who  have  read  it, 
places  his  name  among  the  great  ones  in  American  literature. 


PUBLISHED   BY 

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THE  DRAMATIC  WORKS  OF  PERCY  MACKAYE 


JEANNE  D'ARC 

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First  produced  in  Philadelphia,  October  15,  1906,  by  E.  H.  Sothern  and 
Julia  Marlowe,  and  since,  by  the  same  actors,  in  New  York,  Boston,  Lon- 
don, and  other  large  cities.  Everywhere  it  has  been  praised,  TAe  Nation 
pronounced  it  "  a  drama  which  is  likely  to  find  a  place  in  the  permanent 
literature  of  the  American  theatre." 

"  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  his  treatment  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans  is  at 
once  the  most  convincing  and  sympathetic  yet  accorded  her  by  poet  or 
dramatist,"  is  the  confident  assertion  of  the  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 
"  Every  line  is  strong  and  purposeful,  and  though  not  lacking  in  the  higher 
tones,  all  are  couched  in  common  language,"  is  the  opinion  of  the  Dra- 
matic Mirror.  "The  author  seems  to  have  discovered  a  mean  between 
prose  drama  and  so-called  dramatic  poems." 

SAPPHO  AND  PHAON.    A  Tragedy 

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New  York  Times :  "  Nor  has  any  dramatist  bound  us  in  a  spell  like  that 
which  Percy  MacKaye  has  woven  into  his  poetic  drama  entitled  '  Sappho 
and  Phaon.' " 

Boston  Daily  Advertiser:  "The  fire  and  vigor  and  beautiful  imagery  of 
Mr.  MacKaye's  happy  experiment  in  classic  form  are  evident.  ...  If, 
being  suitably  staged  and  acted,  it  fails  to  find  favor  with  the  theatre-going 
public,  we  shall  be  surprised.  .  .  .  This  play  is  highwater  mark  in  Ameri- 
can dramatic  verse." 

Boston  Evening  Transcript :  "  In  fact  we  remember  no  drama  by  any  mod- 
ern writer  that  at  once  seems  so  readable  and  so  actable,  and  no  play  that 
is  so  excellent  in  stage  technique,  so  clear  in  characterization,  and  so  com- 
pletely filled  with  the  atmosphere  of  romance  and  poetry." 

THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS.    A  Comedy 

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Madame  Eglantine,  the  prioress,  and  Johanna,  Marchioness  of  Kent. 
The  time  of  the  action  is  in  April,  1387,  and  the  scenes  are  the  Tabard  Inn, 
Southwark,  another  tavern  on  the  road,  and  the  exterior  of  Canterbury 
Cathedral.  The  story,  which  is  entertaining  from  first  to  last,  has  to  do 
with  Chaucer's  adventure  with  the  wife  of  Bath  and  his  love  for  the  prioress. 
"  Every  line  of  '  The  Canterbury  Pilgrims '  seems  to  have  been  wrought 
with  infinite  pains.  The  play  possesses  splendid  literary  qualities  —  and  it 
is  actable."  —  Dramatic  Mirror. 

"  Throughout  the  play  the  characters  of  these  two  most  innocent  lovers 
[Chaucer  and  the  prioress]  are  maintained  with  exquisite  humor  and  feel- 
ing for  life.  Outside  of  the  covers  of  Shakespeare  it  would  be  hard  to  find 
anything  of  the  kind  at  once  more  original  and  more  nearly  on  Shake- 
speare's level." —  New  York  Times. 


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THE  SCARECROW.    A  Tragedy  of  the  Ludicrous 

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This  was  the  first  prose  drama  published  by  Mr.  MacKaye.  It  is  an  imagi- 
native study  of  New  England  temperament  as  a  local  phase  of  broader 
human  psychology.  The  scene  is  laid  in  a  town  of  Massachusetts  during 
the  early  witchcraft  days  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  the  idea  under- 
lying the  comic  theme  is  the  "  sense  of  human  sympathy  which  is,  it  would 
seem,  a  more  searching  critic,  of  human  frailty  than  satire."  The  dialogue 
is  crisp,  and  the  scenes  are  full  of  picturesque  opportunity  for  an  actor  de- 
picting Ravensbane,  "  a  thing  of  shreds  and  patches,"  trying  to  play  the 
part  of  a  real  man ;  or  for  one  attempting  to  portray  to  the  life  the  physical 
and  mental  nobility  of  Goody  Rickby, 

FENRIS  THE  WOLF.    A  Tragedy 

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"  In  Mr.  Percy  MacKaye's  tragedy,  '  Fenris  the  Wolf,'  "  says  The  Nation, 
"we  have  a  play  which  is  an  uncommonly  bold  piece  of  imagination.  In 
setting  and  atmosphere  the  play  is  highly  poetic.  The  action  passes  before 
rune-stones  in  the  northern  forest  at  daybreak  or  twilight,  in  prison  cham- 
bers, and  by  deep  forest  pools.  Though  it  closely  skirts  the  borders  of  the 
fantastic,  it  never  becomes  quite  fantastic." 

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characters  are  delightfully  contrasted."  —  New  York  Times. 
"  In  a  delicately  framed  comedy  called  '  Mater,'  Mr.  MacKaye  gave  his 
friends  reason  to  be  proud  of  him,  and  the  public  about  the  most  whole- 
some play  that  has  been  presented  on  any  stage  this  season.  '  Mater ' 
ought  to  be  successful  because  it  is  a  good  comedy,  and  unlike  many  of  the 
straight  comedies,  it  is  substantial.  It  ought  to  be  successful  because  it 
gives  promise  of  something  enduring.  It  is  the  product  of  a  level  head 
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Yale,  Columbia,  and  other  American  Universities.  Of  its  five  leading 
chapters,  the  first  concerns  itself  with  the  conditioning  influences  of  the 
theatre  upon  the  drama;  the  second,  with  a  possible  goal  for  our  native 
drama;  the  third,  with  the  civic  status  of  the  dramatist's  profession;  the 
fourth,  with  the  need  of  leadership ;  the  fifth,  with  art  as  public  service. 


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DORIAN  DAYS  — POEMS 

By  WENDELL  PHILLIPS  STAFFORD 

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This  Tolome  of  ver»c  derives  its  title  from  the  fact  that  its  author  has 
returned  to  the  dassic  beauty  of  ancient  Greece  for  a  large  part  of  his 
nateriaL  Such  a  return  in  this  so-called  age  of  commercialism  by  a 
man  who  has  played  so  prominent  a  part  in  the  afllairs  of  to-day  as 
has  Justice  Stafford  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  District  of  Columbia, 
is  a  noteworthy  event  in  itself^  and  it  is  rendered  doubly  so  by  the 
quality  of  the  rerse  he  has  produced.  Graceful  in  diction,  deli^tful 
m  metre  and  charming  in  sdbject,  his  little  book  is  a  valuable  addition 
to  the  fiteratnre  of  to^y  and  of  all  days. 

POEMS 

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**  It  is  impofsible  to  open  the  volume  %wf^\^ttt  at  random,  without  at 
once  observii^  as  its  prime  characteristics,  a  purity  of  line,  a  sweet- 
ness of  melody,  a  fineness  of  sentiment  not  to  be  found  present  in  such 
porfect  and  unbroken  harmony  in  the  work  of  any  other  among  con* 
tcapooMry  poets,'' — Atlantic  Monthly, 

WILD  EDEN 

BY  THE  SAME  AtfTHOE 

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dean,  voeikai  worksAtatOttp,  ate  tbe  ehM»eUn§tia  of  diis  Httk  voU 

nme  of  foetrj,** — Chicago  TrUntne. 

"In  rhytini,  in  SetwUf  in  imagination  tnd  beaniy  of  though  Mf« 

Neidtf  has  seemed  to  as  to  have  been  deddedly  soccessfuL" — /Cich- 

m»naTim€S'Deipatch, 

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